


What Doesn't Kilt You/X Marks The Scotch

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Honey, It's all about the Kilts, Kilt Sex, Kilts, Lots of kilt sex of various kinds, M/M, Pants or No Pants, Shameless Smut, Voice Kink, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-08 13:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Two Parts of One Gloriously Kilted Day.Chapter 1: Greg is at London's St. Andrews' Day celebration. In a kilt. He's not happy about it at all, but it may turn out to be a better day than he imagined.Chapter 2: John dragged Sherlock to London's St. Andrews' Day celebration too. John's pretty happy about it all, and his day's about to get even better.





	1. What Doesn't Kilt You (Mystrade)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).



> Brace yourselves, people, this is hardcore kiltstrade with a little bit of plot at the beginning.  
> ** NEW AND IMPROVED: NOW WITH KILTLOCK!**  
> We can all thank englandwouldfalljohn for her ongoing enthusiasm about this story.   
> Enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's perspective of the St Andrew's Day celebrations - and after.

Greg looked at himself in the mirror once again. He shook his head, adjusting his sporran and wondering if it was medically possible to die of embarrassment. He’d have to ask John. It was his fault, after all, mentioning in front of the Superintendant that Greg’s mother was Scottish. The Super had lit up, in as much as the dour man ever did, directing Lestrade to ‘represent his heritage with pride’ at the St Andrew’s Day celebration in Regent’s Park.

“Do you know your family tartan?” John had asked innocently, and Lestrade had stared daggers at him while the Super had pointed out that anyone could wear the [Black Watch tartan](http://www.scotlandshop.com/tartan.aspx/Black-Watch-Ancient-13123) if he couldn’t find his own. John hadn’t even waited until the man had left before slapping Greg on the back and consoling him.

“This is your bloody fault, least you can do is man up and join me,” Greg grumbled.

To his surprise John had readily agreed. “Might even get Sherlock to join me.”

Greg had snorted in disbelief at that. “If you can get Sherlock there in a kilt, the pints’ll be on me for a month. I could use the laugh.”

He and John had parted ways, and he’d sworn to himself. He’d never worn a kilt in his life, the French ancestry far more prominent in his own upbringing than his mother’s Scottish past. Knowing he’d be in for it if he forgot, Greg made an appointment at a Scottish outfitter for the next day. He’d have to rent a kilt and all the trimmings. There was no way he was spending money on all this for one day.

The choices had been overwhelming – sporran, shoes, shirt, jacket – until he’d just told the outfitter to give him a whole ensemble that went together so he wouldn’t look too ridiculous. That had been a mistake – of course the man wouldn’t think a kilt would look ridiculous – and Greg had been meek and polite of the rest of his visit in contrition. At least the fabric of his kilt was quite subtle; the mid-blue and black with a thin red stripe was nothing like some of the bright reds and yellows that had presented themselves as Greg walked in. When the man had shown him an array of generic tartans he could pick, Greg immediately went for the least alarming pattern. Unfortunately, as they sorted out the hiring fee, Greg had mentioned his family heritage, and the man had insisted on looking up his clan tartan. Greg felt so guilty about his earlier gaff he’d relented and agreed to the [Sorbie Clan tartan](http://www.tartansauthority.com/tartan-ferret/display/6313/sorbie-name) instead, which had been exactly what the outfitter had wanted to hear. His family tartan was unusual enough that it was not in stock and had to be made, so Greg ended up having to buy the kilt. The beaming smile the outfitter gave him was worth it at the time, but now Greg wasn’t so sure. His legs really were distressingly visible in this, he thought.

 _Is the old myth true?_ Greg texted John.

When John replied with a single question mark, Greg expanded, _Commando under the kilt_.

 _Not in a rented kilt_ , John had said, and Greg could hear the laugh that no doubt accompanied it.

So it was his decision, being the dubiously proud owner of this particular garment. Greg debated, still looking at his reflection. God, he looked a [sight](http://www.scotyard.com/Complete-Custom-Kilt-Outfits_c30.htm). The hose were fitted, of course, and his legs were on display for all to see. It had taken a YouTube tutorial to help him get the laces of his brogues tied correctly (why didn’t he go for the regular ones?), but they did look good, he had to admit. The blue and black of his family tartan was subtly different to the black and white Prince Charlie jacket and shirt, too. The outfitter had offered him a tie in matching kilt pattern, and Greg had accepted, hoping it made the whole thing a little more casual. He wondered now if the whole ensemble was still too formal. He was not looking forward to walking around in public looking like he was going to Balmoral for a state visit. The only comfort he bore was that everyone else would be in some variation of Scottish national dress. Greg checked his watch, then grabbed his badge and wallet before making his way downstairs. He still wasn’t completely comfortable in this flat, having only moved in a few months ago. The previous flat had been interim, taken in the immediacy of his divorce. Now, eighteen months later, he was relieved to be somewhere a little nicer, if more expensive.

Technically Greg could have walked to Regent’s Park, but his self-consciousness made the twenty minute walk out of the question. He’d ordered a cab, and was relieved to see it waiting for him as he exited his front door. Jumping in, Greg allowed himself a few moments of ‘what the hell am I doing’ panic. Yes, his boss had more or less made it clear he had no choice, but knowing that both John and Sherlock would be there, albeit in similar garb, made it so much worse. He’d looked online at the plan for the day, calculating that three hours would satisfy his obligation. He’d have to attend the formal parade, for which he had an allocated seat, and made sure he smiled at the right people, of course. Once that was done he could vanish, allowing the true Scots to celebrate their heritage without him. Not that he felt remotely Scottish. Ridiculous was what he felt.

The cab pulled up, dropping him a block from the park, as close as he could get with the closure of the Outer Circle road and all the traffic. Greg paid him and stepped out, once again adjusting his sporran before sighing and joining the crowd. He was relieved to see that the range of kilt choices was vast; everything from almost casual farmer’s wear to the more formal look he was displaying. More to the point, nobody was paying him a lick of attention. His anxiety dropped away at that realisation. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

“Greg!” He turned at the sound of his name as he entered the park. He spotted Sherlock first, of course, being so much taller than most of the crowd; it wasn’t until they were closer that he saw the detective’s attire.

“Nice look.” Greg grinned. Sherlock frowned at him, recognising the teasing tone. He looked magnificent, of course. The mainly green kilt (was it a [Holmes family tartan](https://www.scotweb.co.uk/tartan/id/57106), he wondered) was paired with the same Prince Charlie jacket Greg wore. Of course he’d go for the most formal option, Greg thought.

“Thank you.” Sherlock replied stiffly, after a pointed look from John, who had appeared from the crowd. He wore his [Army uniform jacket and shirt with his kilt](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356520093243/), and Greg could see the military bearing John always displayed whenever he was in uniform.

“Hi Greg.” John greeted him. “You look great.”

Greg rolled his eyes, his discomfort taking his words. “Is that a [Watson tartan](http://www.scotlandshop.com/search.aspx?searchterm=watson)?” he asked to shift the focus.

“Nope. [Official tartan of the RAMC](https://www.tartanregister.gov.uk/tartanDetails?ref=11394). Optional formal dress.” He smoothed one hand over the small red, blue and green checks. “I have a Watson one too, but Da wanted me to get this when I enlisted, so…” he shrugged. Greg noticed he looked at ease, despite his military bearing. Obviously an experienced kilt wearer, Greg surmised.

“So it’s not a rental, then?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow.

John grinned, obviously understanding the insinuation. “Nope.” He told Greg, his cheeks reddening a little.

Sherlock looked confused and impatient, the subtle conversation passing over his head. “What’s the point of this again, John?” he asked.

“You get to keep your experiments, I’ll make the tea and you can laugh at Mycroft.” John told him, shooting a look at Greg.

“Mycroft’s here?” Greg found himself asking. That was not part of the plan.

“Somewhere.” John said, surveying the growing crowd. “Part of our negotiations include us finding Mycroft at some stage so Sherlock can point and laugh at him.” John and Greg rolled their eyes in sync, and Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“He’ll be at the formal events, then the afternoon tea tent, gorging himself as usual.” Sherlock said, turning his head to look around. He glanced at his watch. “The parade starts in half an hour, let’s go and find the Royal stand. He’ll be there somewhere.”

Greg’s heart had dropped and his stomach simultaneously jumped into his stomach at this revelation. Mycroft was here. _Mycroft_. The man he’d finally admitted to himself pushed his buttons like no other, and had therefore been avoiding for several months. He shook his head, swallowing hard. There was no way they could miss each other. Mycroft had a disconcerting way of locating him in a crowd, and despite the be-kilted masses, Greg felt like he stood out like a sore thumb. He threw a distracted grin at John and followed the two men, noting absently that John seemed to appreciate the miles of leg Sherlock had on display.

On impulse, he whispered to John, “Does Sherlock own his kilt, do you think?” The flaming cheeks and wide eyes of his friend confirmed his suspicions and distracted him from his own worries. “Go get him, tiger.” Greg muttered as they arrived at the official viewing stand for the parade. John frowned at him, though it didn’t hold and he ended up grinning a little sheepishly at Greg.

Sherlock appeared at that moment, looking at John’s expression in confusion before saying, “They won’t let me in. We’ll have to find another way.”

This was what Greg had been hoping against. Throwing John a look that clearly said, ‘You owe me one’, he turned to Sherlock and said, “Come with me. Two minutes, you understand?” John waited behind as Greg and Sherlock made their way to security. After some fumbling with his sporran, Greg pulled out his badge, photo ID and official invitation to sit in the stand as New Scotland Yard’s representative for the day. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing. It wasn’t often that Greg could surprise him, but there was little amusement in it today.

“I’m just taking this man inside to identify a suspect. His wallet was stolen and we believe there’s a man here that can help in the investigation.”

“Very good, Detective Inspector,” the security guard said, handing his ID back, “Just a reminder that the parade starts in twenty minutes and we are asking that you take your seat ten minutes before.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Greg said, steering Sherlock with one hand under his elbow. Once they were out of earshot, Sherlock pulled away and started to stride off.

“Hold it!” Greg said, chasing him down. He set the timer on his watch, ready to start when they found Mycroft. “I meant it, Sherlock. We find Mycroft _together,_ mind you, then you’ve got two minutes of gloating or whatever and I’m escorting you back out.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sulked, which Greg counted as a win. They consulted the usher, who directed them to Mycroft’s seat on the far side of the stand. The Queen was not in attendance, though several more minor members of the Royal Family were present; Greg assumed Her Majesty was in Scotland today, anyway.

“Brother dear,” Sherlock drawled as they approached Mycroft. He did not look surprised, given he’d been able to see them mount the stairs, but the resigned look told Greg he knew exactly why there were there. Greg tuned out as the brothers traded the usual barbs, then when his watch beeped, he grabbed Sherlock’s elbow again.

“So nice to see you, Mycroft.” Greg said, pushing a protesting Sherlock back on his way down the stairs. He made sure Sherlock made it back out of the stand, and told the guard in a voice loud enough for Sherlock to hear that there was no reason for Sherlock to be allowed back in – he could call Greg or 999 if there was something he needed. Sherlock scowled and Greg just winked at him, his mood greatly improved by being able to get one over on Sherlock. There would be retribution, of course, but not today. That thought amused him until he’d made it back up the steps to the seating.

Scanning his ticket for his own seat allocation, Greg couldn’t help glance over at where Mycroft was seated. There were a whole host of details he had missed earlier. Mycroft was sitting in an aisle seat next to an empty; it would be easy as anything to approach him and say hi properly. Apologise and explain the business with Sherlock, perhaps. Putting off the decision, Greg allowed his eyes to roam over Mycroft, a luxury he had not allowed him when Sherlock was with them earlier. The last thing he needed was a deduction – from either brother – about his attraction towards Mycroft. Mycroft was wearing a kilt, of course, the same pattern as Sherlock; it must be a family tartan, then. It was also no surprise that Mycroft had chosen a formal option, with a Prince Charlie Jacket and black bow tie. His garter flashes matched the tartan and Greg saw a glimpse of silver against the tartan as Mycroft shifted – a kilt pin, then. Of course Mycroft would be correct in every detail. His legs, those long, long legs, were crossed at the knee, and Greg had a delicious thought of running one hand up and up, under that kilt and along the glorious pale skin to see what he would find. If it was a Holmes tartan, therefore Mycroft owned the kilt, so it was entirely possible he chose to wear nothing underneath…

Not a train of thought for this place, Greg realised, feeling his groin heat and swell with the fantasy rapidly playing out in his head. Raising his eyes, Greg saw with a start that Mycroft was looking right at him, a calm and level gaze. There was no way of not speaking to him now, Greg thought resignedly, plastering a smile on and climbing the stairs to greet Mycroft once more.

“Hi,” Greg said with more good cheer than he felt.

“Hello again,” Mycroft replied. “Would you care to join me?”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” Greg replied. Mycroft shifted over and Greg took his seat, the plastic warm from body heat he was determined to ignore. He was careful to cross his legs like Mycroft, making sure his knees were covered by the fabric of his kilt. “Was someone meant to be sitting here with you?”

“An extra seat was supplied in case my presence was required here while I continued to work on other pressing matters. Anthea would have accompanied me had that been the case. However I find myself in the unusual position of having nothing urgent to do, and an assistant who has blocked my access to secure networks to ensure my relaxation for the next” he checked his watch, “43 hours and 12 minutes.”

Greg grinned at Mycroft’s answer – it was so precise, so _Mycroft_. “Well what are you going to do with all that time off?” Greg asked, teasing a little. God, what was he doing? The flirt in him would not lie down and he sincerely hoped Mycroft didn’t take offense to his less than professional demenour.

“Well I’m here, which is not entirely by choice – there are some conversations that do need to be had today – but then I am a man of leisure. Anthea believes in ‘What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger’.” He looked supremely uncomfortable with that idea, Greg noticed.

Taking pity on him, Greg offered, “I can give you some ideas if you think you’ll run short. Of what to do, I mean. With your down time.” _Stop talking, Greg_ , he told himself.

“I would gladly accept your advice, thank you.” Mycroft said, hesitating before adding, “Gregory.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. Mycroft had never called him anything other than ‘Detective Inspector’ before. Mycroft saw his surprise and explained, “I believe this has shifted our relationship beyond the boundaries of strict professionalism. If you’d prefer I can revert to ‘Detective Inspector’.”

“No no, it’s fine.” Greg reassured him. They’d move beyond professional? What did that mean? Greg thought to himself.

“Did you have something in mind already for,” Greg did some quick calculations, “the rest of today and all of tomorrow?”

“Anthea only informed me of her dastardly plan as I seated myself this morning. I have been trying to circumvent her, however she is well trained. Since then I have been conversing with you, so I have not had the opportunity to consider my options.”

“Dastardly?” Greg grinned at the scowl that emerged on Mycroft’s face.

“Yes. She is.” He replied, but as Greg kept grinning at him, the scowl relaxed and he managed a small smile. “I do not often have ‘down time’ and I am at a loss as to how to fill the time.”

“It’s daunting, isn’t it.” Greg said quietly. Mycroft nodded mutely, and Greg went on, looking out at the preparations for the parade to avoid that piercing gaze. “Having so much time to do whatever you want when you’re used to being scheduled, or at least having someone else to consider. And now it just stretches out in front of you, and there’s nobody to care if you eat, or what you eat, or if you sit around watching bad TV all day in your underwear.” That last bit might have been too much, he chastised himself, but instead when he glanced at Mycroft, he found a sympathetic look.

“Your divorce.” He said simply, and Greg nodded.

“It’s been hard.” Greg admitted. “Not what I wanted, and there’s a lot of down time now.” They sat in silence for a few moments, and just as Greg thought he should say something, the announcer came on and the parade began. There were military regiments, pipe bands, dancing kids and adults, all in a whirling array of Scottish kilted pride. They didn’t speak while the parade was on, but Greg could feel Mycroft shifting beside him, clapping dutifully for each group as they were announced; Greg took his cue and clapped when Mycroft did. He was almost painfully aware that not only was Mycroft next to him, but they had shared a surprisingly intimate conversation just now, albeit without him exploding in embarrassment. Hopefully when they were done Mycroft might be able to take some of Greg’s suggestions and relax for the weekend. God knew he deserved it, working as hard as he did.

Greg recrossed his legs, the position unfamiliar and a little uncomfortable. He brushed his foot against Mycroft’s as he did so, and looked down automatically, murmuring ‘sorry’ and moving his brogue out of the way. As he did, the flash of silver on Mycroft’s kilt caught his eye and he blinked, then grinned. Mycroft caught him looking, and gave him a questioning look.

“[Umbrella pin](https://www.kinlochanderson.com/pewter-sword-kilt-pin)?” Greg mouthed, pointing to it. To his delight, Mycroft blushed as only a redhead can, blotchy and pink. He shrugged self-consciously and dared to catch Greg’s eye again.

“Love it.” Greg mouthed, and the pink intensified as Mycroft dragged his eyes resolutely back to the parade. The back of his neck was pink too, Greg could see now, and he’d crossed his arms across his body. As Greg too turned his eyes to the parade, clapping automatically with the crowd around him, he realised his heart was beating fast, an unconscious smile still tugging at his mouth. _Oh my God I think I just flirted with Mycroft Holmes. About his kilt. And he blushed, properly blushed._ Greg blinked, not seeing the last of the parade as his insides flitted between ecstasy and panic. Had Mycroft turned away because he wanted to get out of there, to escape the inappropriately personal comments of this Detective Inspector? Or, hope against hope, was he equally interested in Greg and only now realising that Greg might not be so black and white about his preferences?

The parade finished and Greg took a deep breath. Time to dive back into this conversation and see what happened.

“Interesting,” he managed, indicating the parade with an awkward gesture, cursing himself for the lame opening.

“Indeed.” Mycroft replied, and an awkward silence fell until the woman on the other side of Mycroft asked him to stand so she could get past. He and Greg stood too and joined the exodus, moving slowly down the steps. Greg was acutely aware of Mycroft behind him, the little brushes of Mycroft’s body against him whenever the erratic forward motion made him stop suddenly. When Greg realised it was happening, he did it more often, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t notice. Nothing was said, and when they finally made their way back out into the weak London sunlight, Greg turned to him.

“So, what have you planned for the next hour?” Greg asked. Mycroft looked a little confused, so Greg explained, “I found that if I tried to plan for the whole weekend, it was too much, too overwhelming. So I ended up doing two things. First, I’d make a list of all the jobs and errands I really should do, and all the things I could do if I wanted, like joining a mate at the pub or going for a run. Then I’d just decide on one thing at a time.” He held up an imaginary list. “So for the next hour, I’m going to choose… You get the idea. It made it easier than planning everything at once, and no pressure to do all the things I’d planned, because I hadn’t actually planned anything. Just given myself options.”

Mycroft considered this. “What did you do with the list when you were done?”

Greg blinked at the unexpected question. “Threw it out, mostly. Why?”

“I dislike incomplete tasks.” Mycroft admitted.

“It’s not a ‘To Do’ list, Mycroft. Just a collection of possibilities.” Greg encouraged. Mycroft still looked doubtful, so Greg suggested, “How about this. Let’s go and do something together for the next hour. I’ll give you a couple of choices, and you can choose.”

Mycroft looked relieved, and nodded his head. “That is very kind of you, Gregory.” His voice was quiet and formal, and Greg felt a pang of sympathy. It wasn’t easy, being thrust into a new situation, the least he could do was help Mycroft ease his way through.

“Right,” Greg said, looking around, “We’re going to avoid the afternoon tea tent, that’s where Sherlock thought you’d be and we want to avoid him. How about we go this way? We’ll walk ‘til we see something you want to look at. Or, we could leave the Festival altogether and find something to eat. There you go, two options.” Greg fiddled with the ends of his jacket as he watched Mycroft consider the two proposals.

“I think we should walk in that direction.” Mycroft said decisively, though his expression was not so sure.

Greg smiled encouragingly. “Great. Let’s see what we see, shall we?”

They started moving, slowly because of the crowds, which had only increased since the parade had ended. Greg didn’t start a conversation, partly because of the difficulty when they drifted away a little in the crowd and partly because he didn’t know what to say. Was this a date now? He had no idea, and there had been no clear indication from Mycroft as to whether he returned or even acknowledged Greg’s interest in him. Pushing his uncertainty aside, Greg tried to just enjoy himself. His earlier self-consciousness about the kilt was gone as more than half the men they saw were wearing some variation of the national dress, so he could concentrate on trying to see what the stall holders were selling. There were souvenirs and knick-knacks of all sorts bearing the Scottish flag or generic tartans; one stall had tiny little kilts for small children, another even smaller ones that had Greg mystified until the crowd parted and he saw the display teddies dressed in their Scottish finest.

Finally they reached a section with restricted entry.

“What’s in there, then?” Greg asked, tilting his chin behind the security guard. The stalls were facing the other way so he couldn’t see.

“Whisky tasting.” The guard said, obviously bored. Greg turned around and scanned for Mycroft, who was a little behind him and looking a bit lost.

“Hey, Mycroft!” Greg called, grinning when the man turned at the sound of his name. Greg waved him over and the guard let them through. “Too old to be carded now,” Greg said.

“For quite a few years now.” Mycroft replied.

“I’ve looked too old for a lot longer than you,” Greg protested, pointing at his silver hair.

Mycroft simply raised one eyebrow and said, “At least you’ve got some to point to, Gregory.” He indicated his own receding hairline, and Greg laughed out loud. Mycroft seemed surprised that Greg would find him funny, which was such a pity, Greg thought as his laughter wound down.

“I think we can agree that we are distinguished gentlemen of an appropriate age to taste whisky without flashing our ID.” Mycroft said somewhat primly.

“Or anything else.” Greg only just managed to get the words out before he cracked up again at his own joke. He laughed and laughed, watching Mycroft’s face change from astonishment to wry amusement and finally, miraculously, to a chuckle of his own.

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished him when they had both settled down. Well, Greg had settled; Mycroft hadn’t laughed with quite the same abandonment.

“If I’d know it was off-colour jokes that would make you laugh, Mycroft, I’d have started putting them out there a long time ago.” Greg said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve never seen you laugh, you know.”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered, looking supremely uncomfortable.

“It suits you.” Greg’s mouth opened and he spoke without thinking, though it was true.

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft replied. “Shall we proceed?”

“I’m sure you know a lot more about this than I do.” Greg said as they approached the first vendor. This section was busy, but not as difficult to navigate. The absence of small children and prams meant they could walk side-by-side, though with raised voices against the boisterous noise that seemed to be coming from all sides.

“Yes, I am quite knowledgeable about whisky,” Mycroft agreed. They smiled at the vendor, who offered them a sample of his wares. It was easily the best Scotch Greg had ever tasted and he nodded approvingly. Mycroft sniffed the amber liquid, swirling it around before taking it into his mouth and moving it around again, considering the flavours as they developed on his tongue. As he swallowed, his eyes distant as he registered the after taste, Greg swallowed with him. Bloody hell, this was positively pornographic. Greg put a firm stopper on his brain, generating a list of other things Mycroft might put in his mouth.

“I can taste the peat, but it’s subtle,” Mycroft said to the vendor, and they had an intense conversation about the exact amount of peat to make an optimal whisky, which left Greg at sea. Watching Mycroft talking about Scotch, though, was like walking out of the dark into a room bathed in light. He simply illuminated from within, eyes bright, hands animated as they spoke. This was clearly his passion, and Greg felt honoured to have witnessed such a personal side of this intensely private man.

“I apologise, Gregory,” Mycroft said, bending his head low to be heard over the noise. Greg was standing to the side of the stall, and Mycroft took his elbow to steer him away from the moving people so they could speak. “I was carried away talking to Andrew. He has a fascinating process for subtly peat smoking his offerings.”

“Not a worry,” Greg said, most of his attention on where Mycroft’s hand still cupped his elbow, the long fingers stretching almost around to the tender skin of his inner elbow. Two layers of fabric be damned, the slight pressure was like fire as the cotton shirt shifted against his sensitive skin under Mycroft’s fingers. “Did I hear you arranging a delivery?”

“Yes, he was quite pleased. I will have our regular brand switched over at both the office and at home. A standing order of 24 bottles a month.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like a lot.”

“Drinking Scotch is part of doing business, I’m afraid. And I do a lot of business.”

“So you liked it, then.”

“It is far superior to the widely commercial brand we currently carry. I would prefer to support a small distillery with a knowledgeable staff, in any case.” Greg grinned at him, pleased that if nothing else, Mycroft had discovered something he liked on this unusual afternoon. And he’d have the new brand of Scotch to remind him of it, too.

“Should we continue?” Greg suggested, though the small space between stalls they occupied felt quiet and intimate compared to the cacophony outside. Mycroft paused a moment, looking at Greg intently before agreeing. They turned and joined the flow of people again, working their way slowly along the stalls. Greg was aware that he hadn’t eaten in a while, and made sure to sip at the whisky. The last thing he needed was lowered inhibitions at a time like this. He swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle, turning to see what Mycroft thought of this latest tasting. He had performed the same delicate smelling procedure at each stall, though not all the samples were tasted, to Greg’s private disappointment. He was impressed at how Mycroft stopped to speak to each stallholder, asking about techniques and materials and listening attentively. Even when he didn’t order anything (which was most of the stalls, really), Greg could see that his thoughtful conversation had meant a lot to the men and women manning the stalls. As though he felt Greg’s eyes on him, Mycroft turned, the tasting cup raised to his lips; he tasted and swirled and swallowed once again, nodding his head approvingly and smiling at Greg.

“Good?” Greg asked unnecessarily.

“Very.” Mycroft replied, smiling back. He spoke a little to the hopeful looking stallholder before he and Greg drifted away to stand under a tree at the end of the row of stalls. They’d visited them all, now; Greg wondered what would happen now. Were they done? Would Mycroft elect to go home now, or would he look to Greg for continued guidance on his afternoon?

“Which was your favourite of those we’ve tasted, Gregory?”

Greg considered, looking back at the dozen or so stalls they had visited. He pointed to the first, where Mycroft had ordered so many bottles for his office and home. “I think that was most to my taste. Less peaty.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was confident that we would not find a better example here. I too find the peat can overwhelm the more understated aromas and tastes.”

“Is that why you ordered so many bottles?” Greg asked. Mycroft shrugged, and Greg added, “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Not in everything, Gregory. Scotch, though, I believe I have mastered.”

Greg felt his heart beat a little faster as he asked, “What other things are there, that you’re not so sure of?” By now they were standing under the shade of the tree, half hidden behind one of the stalls. There was a trailer parked behind them, shielding the pair from casual view; it was as private as things were going to get in the middle of Regent’s Park on a Saturday afternoon in September. Greg waited. Mycroft was thinking, he could tell from the slightly glazed look and the tilted head. A slight breeze crossed his face, and Greg closed his eyes a little, enjoying its coolness on his flushed skin. The Scotch had certainly had some effect, he could feel his blood running warmer. And unexpected side effect of the breeze was that it could reach places usually covered by his trousers. When the air under the edges of his kilt stirred, the hairs on his thighs twitched, cool air prompting the response. It was an odd feeling, Greg thought. He’d hardly noticed the kilt in the last hour or so, he’d been so focussed on Mycroft. Now, though, he felt exposed as the air moved around him in a way usually not possible.

“This is a good example.” Mycroft spoke suddenly, drawing Greg’s attention back. He had to think for a moment about the question he had asked. When he realised what Mycroft was talking about, his eyebrows rose.

“This?” He asked. His still rapid heartbeat gave away the game – he knew, or hoped at least, what Mycroft was talking about, but he needed to hear the words before he dared do anything that might jeopardise their professional – and today, developing personal – relationship.

“Whatever it is between you and me, Gregory.” Mycroft said patiently. His cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink as he admitted, “I am extremely attracted to you, but I find it difficult to read emotional cues from people when it pertains to me.”

Greg paused and translated. “You can’t tell if I’m attracted to you or not.”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg grinned at him, feeling buoyant at the knowledge that he was in with a chance with Mycroft. “Hopefully this is clear, then.”

Rather than kissing Mycroft’s mouth, which was his first impulse, Greg chose a different tactic. He wanted his first kiss with Mycroft to be far more personal than would be appropriate here; something else, then, to get the message across. Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s left hand in his right, raising the knuckles to his lips. Holding Mycroft’s eyes, Greg kissed each knuckle in turn, allowing his lips to graze over the skin as he moved from one to the next. When he was done, and Mycroft’s breathing was audible, Greg turned his hand over and pressed a long kiss to Mycroft’s palm, before folding the long fingers in over it.

“Is that clearer?” Greg murmured, lips still caressing Mycroft’s closed fist.

“Yes, I find it is.” Mycroft’s voice was deeper, rich like the Scotch they had just consumed.

“Good.” Greg replied. He dropped Mycroft’s hand gently, stepping back to grin at the wrecked look on Mycroft’s face. “Our first hour is over, you know. We made it through without dying of boredom or getting trampled by any passing pipe bands.” Mycroft was still pulling himself together, and that just wouldn’t do, Greg thought. Now that he knew Mycroft was interested, it was no holds barred. Greg stepped closer, shifting so his cheek was almost pressed against Mycroft’s, his mouth right next to Mycroft’s ear. His heart was pounding, and it was certainly the Scotch that had given him the push to do this. “I have some suggestions for how we could pass the rest of the afternoon, if you’re game to pick an activity without putting a time limit on things.” He chuckled, a deliberately low, gravelly sound. “Or you could trust me to pick something mutually enjoyable.” As he spoke, two of his fingers were rubbing gently against the fabric at Mycroft’s hip as though he could feel the pattern with the tips of his fingers.

The hitch in Mycroft’s breathing was clear, and when Greg drew back, the blue eyes were determined. “You decide.” Mycroft said huskily. “I trust you, Gregory.”

Greg nodded. Now that they both knew where they stood, it would be easy enough to grab a taxi back to his place and fulfil his fantasy of Mycroft out of that kilt. It was still fairly early, though, and Greg wanted to enjoy the anticipation of an evening with Mycroft, both of them knowing what could happen at the end of the date, should they both want it.

“Right. In that case, I know the perfect place. It’s not that far from here by tube.” Greg smiled at Mycroft, who looked a little bewildered and a lot uncertain. Greg softened his voice, taking Mycroft’s hand again and squeezing it as he asked, “Did you think I meant ‘let’s go home for a shag?’”

Mycroft averted his eyes and nodded minutely.

“Well, that’s certainly on the cards, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve had a good time so far, and I don’t want that to end, so I thought we could go out first. On a proper date, I mean.” Greg explained his thinking to Mycroft, hoping the other man was interested beyond a quick fuck into the mattress and see-ya-later.

“That sounds lovely.” Mycroft replied. “I have enjoyed your company, too.”

Greg smiled and squeezed his fingers again before stepping back, allowing the contact to break. “Excellent. Because I’m not after something so…” he paused, searching for the right word, “fleeting.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and the first spontaneous genuine smile Greg had seen graced his face. It changed the sometimes harsh lines into lovely softness, and melted the ice of his eyes into pools of summertime sky, pale and light. Greg was astonished at the change, and he unconsciously reached a hand out. Realising what he was doing, he froze, pulling his hand back, opening his mouth to apologise, then closing it again. Feeling foolish and sentimental, Greg crossed his arms uncomfortably.

“Shall we go, then?” Mycroft asked, the smile still playing around his lips. Greg nodded, forcing a little smile of his own. They headed back out past the whisky stalls, Mycroft smiling as almost all of them nodded or waved at him.

“Bit of a celebrity, then?” Greg teased. He still felt quite awkward but was determined not to ruin this glorious afternoon.

“It’s all just politics, Gregory.” Mycroft replied as they made their way back into the main crowd.

“Wow, your lack of cynicism is breathtaking,” Greg deadpanned, then indicated to the left with a tilt of his chin. “This way, we’ll head to Baker Street Station. It’s only a few stops.”

The crowd had swelled even further during their foray into the whisky tasting. They ended up in a wide line of people heading in the main direction, shuffling slowly along with no way of pausing or changing direction, had they wanted to. Greg had a sense of déjà vu from earlier, with Mycroft behind him, bumping into him every few steps as the line moved erratically forward. This time though, he could swear that Mycroft was doing it more deliberately; there was surely no need for him to press against Greg with quite so much determination. When he felt fingers slide under the edge of his jacket and settle on the fabric of his kilt, Greg’s breath caught in his throat. Mycroft was doing it on purpose – and he wanted Greg to know that he was. Greg stopped suddenly, partly to avoid the woman in front of him, who was doing something with the baby in her pram. He could see they would be stuck for a few seconds, so allowed his hand to drift backwards, settling on the firm thigh he found behind him. To his delight, the split in the kilt was right under his fingers; Greg slipped sideways, fingertips tracing a short line along the single layer of fabric towards Mycroft’s inner thigh. The fingers on his hip tightened, and even through that little contact, Greg felt the shudder that wracked the body behind him. He smirked, removing his hand and smiling politely to the apologetic mother in front of them as the fingers on his hip shifted away.

They finally made it out of the park and turned towards the Tube station, but Mycroft grabbed Greg’s hand and pulled him towards a row of taxis. “Tell him where we’re going, Gregory,” said Mycroft as they climbed in.

Greg did as Mycroft asked, then turned to give him a ‘please explain this’ look. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he did so.

Mycroft gave a dramatic sigh and leaned closer to Greg, his breath warm across Greg’s neck. “I’m not sure I could have survived another experience pressed so closely against you in public. A taxi seemed expedient.”

“Well, you’re going to hate this evening, then, I’m sorry.” Greg replied with a faux regretful expression. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more. Greg looked out the window, trying to corral his racing thoughts. He could feel the tension thrumming between he and Mycroft – it connected them, their heartbeats pulsing in time as they resisted the urge to bring their bodies together, instead enjoying the anticipation of the moment. The inevitable moment, Greg now thought with a thrill of excitement; there seemed to be no scenario in which they would not tumble into bed together. As he thought about it, Greg realised that deciding to go out to a public place with Mycroft was the stupidest idea he’d ever had. He needed Mycroft now, as soon as possible. The pub would wait.

Turning back from the window, Greg glanced at Mycroft, looking out his own window. The shifting reflection made Mycroft turn around; he must have seen something in Greg’s eyes, because he nodded, his own eye widening before he swallowed hard.

“Change of direction, mate.” Greg told the cabbie. He gave his address instead, now even more grateful that he’d moved from that tiny hovel to this new flat. He felt his breath moving faster, and made a mental search of his place, glad that it was still so new there hadn’t been time for it to get to messy. He was also supremely glad that some of the single guys at work had given him a jokey ‘bachelor pad’ warming present that included condoms, lube, and a few other toys. At the time he’d laughed, though it had depressed him a little in his loneliness. Now he vowed that they’d be on the ‘pints on me for a month’ list along with John.

When they arrived (finally, finally), Greg gave the cabbie a huge tip, considering the short drive, turning to find Mycroft waiting outside his door. Greg fumbled with his sporran, the reality of this moment now making him clumsy. Mycroft eventually took his keys, opening the door and allowing Greg to precede him in. They walked up the single flight of stairs and Greg was able this time to open his own front door, thankfully. He dropped his keys in the dish, leaning against the door to close it. Mycroft stood several paces away, which was halfway across the small flat, really.

“I must admit I was relieved to see your difficulty with your keys, Gregory.” His voice was quiet across the empty room. “I’m not the only nervous one.”

“No, you’re not.” Greg admitted. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, before Greg took a deep breath and pushed off from the door. He wasn’t going to let a few nerves dictate how this would play out. He covered the ground over to Mycroft slowly, never breaking their eye contact. “I was going to take you to a little pub I know. They have some pool tables, dart boards, that kind of place.”

Greg walked around behind Mycroft, speaking into his ear now. “My plan had been to teach you to play darts.” He lifted Mycroft’s right hand in his own, miming throwing a dart. “I’d have to stand quite close to do that, as you can see. And the pub can get crowded, all those bodies. No doubt I’d have been pressed up against you.” Greg shifted closer, his torso fitting against Mycroft’s side. He knew Mycroft’s hip was pressing against his sporran, which in turn was putting pressure on his rapidly swelling cock. Deliberately, Greg murmured, “Of course, in the pub, we’d have been stuck.” He fiddled with the back of his kilt, glad he’d give up on the complex set of ties and just made a simple slip knot instead. Tugging on the loose end, he leaned his hips out from Mycroft, allowing the sporran to drop to the floor. “That’s better.” Greg murmured, grinning at the hitch in Mycroft’s breath and his eyes fixated on the opposite wall. “Now we can be,” he shifted back, his half hard cock now able to make itself known to Mycroft’s hip, “closer.” Greg allowed a deep groan to rumble up and right into Mycroft’s ear. The answering gasp made Greg’s hips jump reflexively, rubbing his cock against the friction of Mycroft’s hip.

“Oh…” Mycroft whispered. Greg swallowed, wondering if he should continue. Given Mycroft’s rapid breathing and the way he kept closing his eyes, he was enjoying this, and God knew Greg was. Onward, then. Their hands were still outstretched, and Greg now brought his arm back towards his body, trailing fingers over Mycroft’s hand, then his trembling arm; a gentle pressure sent it back down to Mycroft’s side. Greg’s fingers pressed against Mycroft’s leg, in the same place as he’d touched while they had been waiting in the crowd. This time, his fingers moved under the edge of the tartan with more confidence, caressing the curve of Mycroft’s thigh.

“After darts, I figured we’d try some pool. Now I assume you’ve played billiards, perhaps,” Mycroft gave a breathy nod, “but I’m talking pub rules.” His fingers paused, making little circles against the wool of the kilt. His hand was quite warm now in the trapped body heat under Mycroft’s kilt, and he fought to keep his breathing steady against thoughts of other things under that kilt. “That bar gets pretty empty on a Saturday night, especially when I know the bartender and he encourages people to leave so I can host a more…intimate affair.” Greg chuckled as he studied Mycroft’s reaction. The abuse of power for personal gain wasn’t exactly a foreign concept to Mycroft, and there was no outward sign that he’d heard anything. Greg wondered what it would take to break that iron resolve.

“So, we’re in the deserted pub,” Greg continued, “except for Adam, but he won’t watch unless you want him to.” No reaction. Hmmm. Greg slid his hand out from under the fold of Mycroft’s kilt and stepped around until he was directly behind him. Both Greg’s hands gripped Mycroft’s hips as he said, “I’d have to show you how to aim the cue, of course. The edge of a pool table is just the right height, you know. For bending.” Greg stepped closer, his shoes knocking Mycroft’s as he slowly rubbed his now straining erection along the valley of Mycroft’s arse. The friction was delicious, and his eyes closed as pleasure radiated from between his legs. Mycroft let out a moan and his knees buckled a little before he caught himself.

“Gregory…” A cracked voice, low and desperate, reached Greg’s ears.

“Doesn’t that sound good?” Greg asked, planting a kiss on the back of Mycroft’s bowed neck. “Of course,” he went on, “there is a lot of fabric in the way. The good thing about a kilt, though is this…” He crouched down, running his hands swiftly down the outside of Mycroft’s legs until he reached the hem. Pausing, fingers brushing naked skin, Greg moved agonisingly slowly to reverse his direction. Greg’s fingers traced a line up the outside of Mycroft’s thighs, hiking the kilt upwards. Greg couldn’t see, with the fabric in the way, but he could picture the skin slowly being revealed, a pale contrast to the predominantly deep green of the tartan.

Mycroft’s breathing was ragged, panting and gasping as Gregory moved across the furry expanse, inexorably upward. It wasn’t until Greg reached hipbone that he understood exactly what was sending Mycroft into overdrive.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, latching another kiss onto the back of Mycroft’s neck. “This is _your_ kilt, isn’t it?” Mycroft nodded. “And you’re all about tradition, and doing things the right way.” Another nod. Greg’s thumbs stroked the soft skin just above Mycroft’s arse, unencumbered by pants of any description. “You’ve been walking around with me, all afternoon with no pants on, Mycroft Holmes.”

A third nod, followed swiftly by a groaned, “Fuck!” as Greg brought his hands around to cup Mycroft’s naked buttocks. The fact that the fabric of the kilt obstructed his view made it so much more arousing. And it was his family tartan, worn by generations of Holmes, and here was Greg, running his hands up under to cop a feel. Greg’s cock had been rock hard seemingly forever, but the realisation of Mycroft’s pants-less state had ramped his arousal up to 11. He could feel pre-come beading on the head of his cock; it was twitching with his pulse and with every breathy moan from Mycroft as Greg stroked and gripped his arse.

“You never asked me about my tartan, Mycroft.” Greg told him, reigning in his own desire, for this was an opportunity not to be rushed. “It’s not common, you know.” As a tremor rocked Mycroft, Greg paused. “Perhaps we should lean against that couch, Mycroft.” Greg directed him.

They shifted together, three steps sideways until Mycroft was standing directly behind Greg’s couch. Greg untied Mycroft’s sporran, dropping it on the cushions to keep it out of the way. “You might need something to hold onto.” Greg couldn’t help whispering in his ear, nipping at the earlobe as Mycroft did just that, gripping the back of the couch hard and dropping his head. “Gorgeous.” Greg murmured. “Where was I? Oh. My tartan.” He rocked his hips forward, pressing his cock into the cleft again; it wasn’t as good as naked skin, with all the fabric in the way, but it relieved some of the building tension. “It’s a Clan tartan. Did you know my mother was Scottish?”

Mycroft shook his head, and Greg chuckled a deep dark sound. “Yes you did. Anyway. The kilt maker insisted I should have a family tartan instead of the Black Watch, so I agreed.” Mycroft whimpered as Greg’s hands drifted lower, finger brushing the crease at the top of his thighs. “Do you know what that means, Mycroft?”

A shake of the head, one Greg actually believed this time. He was obviously past rational thought at this point. Greg was surprised he hadn’t come already – the feel of the tartan against his hard cock was torturous, and he imagined Mycroft felt the same. “It means I’ve been walking around with a half hard cock all day and no pants on either.”

Mycroft groaned, his body bucking in a fruitless search for friction. “It means I’ve been able to feel the roughness of this tartan rubbing against me all day. Just little brushes, like feathers. Or kisses.” He ghosted his lips over the back of Mycroft’s neck, now red and sweaty. “And I’m hard now, really hard, so everything’s a bit sticky. What do you think the kilt maker would think of that, getting come all over the inside of this proud family fabric?”

Greg paused his filthy mutterings for a bit, not sure he could concentrate any longer. He took his hands from Mycroft’s arse, regretting the loss but scrambling as fast as possible to lift the kilt fabric out of the way. He saw a flash of white bum as he pressed his own cock, still under his kilt, against the hot flesh of Mycroft’s arse. “Ohhh…” Greg groaned. He saw stars as he pressed harder, his length settling in the cleft of Mycroft’s arse. The fabric of his kilt rubbed hard against his cockhead; he could feel it was slick with pre-come and he desperately wanted to sink into Mycroft. Knowing that was something that would have to wait, Greg fumbled to get his hands back under the kilt, his moan mingling with Mycroft’s as their skin met again. Mycroft was bending forward now, his arms folded on the couch, head leaning against it as he breathed hard. One of Greg’s hands moved slowly around Mycroft’s hip, under the tent that Greg knew hid Mycroft’s erection. Greg shifted a bit to one side, sliding his other hand to the crease between arse and thigh, running one finger along the sensitive skin. He knew he was teasing, but the little sounds Mycroft made as he did were incredible and he couldn’t voluntarily make them stop. Slowly, his hands traced a path inward, feeling the hair become more dense (oh, God, was Mycroft a redhead down there too?) until his fingers felt the moist heat at the back of Mycroft’s balls. Nudging forward, Greg bumped the tight sac, reaching out to caress his with that hand as the other finally found Mycroft’s cock. Greg encircled the warm hardness as he pressed himself hard against Mycroft’s arse again.

With a cry, Mycroft bucked forward, and Greg could feel his balls pulsing as Mycroft fucked his fist, calling, “Gregory, oh, oh, Gregory…” As Mycroft’s movements became more erratic, Greg stroked him, the last pulse of come leaking down his fingers as Mycroft wilted in the afterglow of his orgasm.

Gently Greg removed his hands from Mycroft’s body; it seemed rude to wipe his hands on either of their kilts, despite the ruined state they were already in. His debate was ended when Mycroft turned suddenly, dropping to his knees and grasping Greg’s hand in his own. His eyes were wide, mouth still slack with pleasure, but he looked up at Greg’s surprised face and took the come-stained fingers into his mouth. Greg watched open mouthed as Mycroft licked his own come from Greg’s fingers, licking and sucking with a suspicious thoroughness that had Greg close to coming almost immediately.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had that exact experience in a kilt before.” Mycroft purred. Greg was startled – what had happened to the nervous man who’d helped him with his keys? Mycroft must have read his face, because he said, “After that exhibition, Gregory, any doubts have been well and truly assuaged. Believe me when I say,” he sucked two of Greg’s fingers into his mouth, running his tongue between them before allowing them to pop out again, “I can be positively filthy.”

Greg’s nervous giggle escaped, only to be replaced by a deep groan as Mycroft placed his palms flat on Greg’s knees, fingers under the kilt. He shifted then stopped, saying, “We should move. It’s your turn to hold onto the couch.” They rotated 180 degrees, Greg now leaning back against the couch, his erection tenting his kilt in an obvious and impressive fashion.

“Mycroft…” Greg managed. He was aching, and it didn’t really matter what Mycroft did, it would not last long from here. Mycroft seemed to understand, because he licked his lips and gave a knowing smile before reaching for the buckles on the side of Greg’s kilt.

“You know,” Mycroft said almost conversationally, his face mere centimetres from Greg’s cock, though he ignored it completely, “not wearing pants with your kilt is a military tradition.” He unbuckled the right buckle of Greg’s kilt, allowing the apron to slide free. It hung down Greg’s left thigh, the kilt still buckled at the left hip. Mycroft smoothed the front of the kilt, eyes roaming over the fabric as it twitched with the movement of the cock beneath. “I can see why it is beneficial, of course,” Mycroft continued, casually placing a kiss at the apex of the protrusion.

Greg bucked forward, swearing. Mycroft continued, “You made me curse earlier. I believe it was when…” he trailed off, lowering his hands to the back of Greg’s knees, resting there, the kilt distorting across his forearms. Normally ticklish there, Greg found the light touch like fire and ice; when Mycroft mimicked his earlier slow pace, hands sliding up Greg’s thighs, the silver head was thrown back, groan strangling out at the torturous pace. One hand moved inwards, reaching between Greg’s legs to find his arse; it forced Greg to widen his stance, pushing his groin out in an obscene display. Finally, Mycroft’s hands found Greg’s arse, naked as his own, and both men moaned, the slide of skin and fabric on both their skin, as erotic to one as to the other.

Mycroft dropped his forehead to rest against Greg’s stomach, just off to the side enough that he wasn’t touching Greg’s cock; the tease was almost too much to bear. The forward thrust of his hips pulled the tartan tight across his cock, and Greg wondered desperately if rutting against it would be enough friction. Mycroft’s fingers kneaded his arse, blunt fingernails digging in a delicious pleasure-pain combination. Just when Greg was considering shifting his weight to rub against Mycroft’s face, he stopped, hands resting against Greg’s arse. Mycroft looked up, eyes locking on Greg’s as he asked seriously, “Would you rather see my mouth as I swallow down your cock?”

Greg couldn’t speak. Why had his brain never come up with that combination of words, in all the fantasies he had devised? He realised Mycroft was waiting for an answer. Nodding mutely, Greg swallowed hard. He broke eye contact when his head was thrown back again from the sensation of Mycroft dragging his hand back through his legs, brushing roughly against perineum, balls and cock alike. It was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he was gasping, shaking, trying to keep enough control to at least make it to the promised fellatio.

Mycroft lifted his hands inside the kilt, moving the fabric out of the way. The pre-come had leaked and smeared all over, and there was a wet patch visible on the inner fabric. “Oh, Gregory, you have been enjoying this…” Mycroft tucked the end of the apron into the waistband of Greg’s kilt, exposing his silver dusted thighs to Mycroft’s attentions. His sticky cock pushed the fabric out of the way, and Mycroft stared at it almost greedily. His hand was warm and firm as he gripped the base of Greg’s cock, pink tongue wide and wet as it wiped along the swollen head of Greg’s cock. Greg groaned long and loud at the sensation. Mycroft tasted, looking at Greg as he shifted the taste around in an echo of his Scotch tasting earlier.

“Oh, I noticed you watching me,” Mycroft said, swallowing exaggeratedly. “I could see you watching me, thinking about other things I could put in my mouth.” He chuckled, and it was a filthy sound, Greg thought dazedly. Of course he noticed. “And you were wondering, but I’m here to tell you, I love to swallow.” Before Greg could even process what that meant, Mycroft leaned forward and took his whole cock into the waiting heat of his mouth. There was little finesse, though Greg was sure Mycroft was a master; they both knew this would be over in a very short time, fancy technique or not. Mycroft sucked hard, pumping his hand at the base as he moaned; the vibrations added another level to the sensation. He’d never had anyone actually enjoy doing this, really enjoy the act in itself, but Mycroft was moaning with definite enthusiasm. Greg felt the arousal coursing through his body start to head south, to pool in his groin as it did before he came. His breath was gasping, “My, My, oh, oh fuck, My…” as he felt everything pull together, and he was teetering on the edge, that glorious moment of weightlessness before falling. Something slid roughly against his balls, then pressed against his perineum and Greg was lost. Flying, exploding through a blinding orgasm, pumping into the tight heat, half conscious that Mycroft was swallowing as he pumped come down his throat. As he finished, a blissful relief came over Greg and he slumped against the couch.

It wasn’t until he went to move his hands that he realised what a tight grip he had had; his fingers would hardly bend. Mycroft was still kneeling on the floor, and to Greg’s astonishment his fist was flying over his cock, panting hard as he stroked himself. Greg dropped to the floor, startling Mycroft; his rhythm faltered, until Greg looked at him and said flatly, “Come on me.” Greg lifted his knees wide, leaning back against the couch; he still wore his whole outfit, sporran aside, and he reclined as he repeated, “Come on me, Mycroft.” Eyes wide, Mycroft rose up onto his knees, fist still flying. Greg shifted the fabric of his kilt so that Mycroft could see his thighs and softening cock. He murmured again, “Come on me. Defile my kilt, Mycroft.” Mycroft’s left hand sank lower, tugging on his balls as he grunted, hips spasming, painting Greg’s thighs, then kilt, with come. Gasping, his spasms abated and he sagged. Greg sat up and caught him, enfolding Mycroft in his arms. They sank down onto the floor in a sweaty heap. For a while they dozed, and when both men had recovered somewhat, Greg surveyed them. Kilts, formal jackets, and come everywhere. He looked at Mycroft, wondering if this was real. It must be; his daydream fantasies were never as good as this.

“Perhaps next time we should take off the kilts?” Mycroft murmured.

Greg beamed. _Next time_. “Oh no,” he whispered, “I have so many plans for you and that kilt, Mycroft. So, so many plans.”

“Like Adam?” Mycroft asked.

“Adam?” Greg replied. “Who’s – oh, the bartender.”

“Would you really have paid him off so we could have sex on the pool table?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “He’d have said no.” he shot a wicked grin at Mycroft. “But I’d still have felt you up. It’s pretty dark back there.”

“All those people would have seen, Gregory.”

Mycroft did not sound too objectionable, Greg thought. He raised one eyebrow. “Problem?” He could feel the stirring in his cock again at the thought of bending Mycroft over and filling him up, crowded bar or no crowded bar. Good Lord, was he seventeen again?

“Not at all.” Mycroft said. “Although…”

“Yes?” Greg asked in anticipation.

“The only person I want watching when you fuck me is you.” Greg groaned at that and kissed Mycroft. It wasn’t until he had buried his hand in Mycroft’s hair, tongue shoved in his mouth, that he realised this was the first time they’d kissed. He pulled away a little, hoping he wasn’t overstepping, but Mycroft pulled him back into the kiss, tasting Greg’s mouth with all the passion Greg had shown. His enthusiasm was arousing, and Greg could feel his cock swelling with every caress of Mycroft’s tongue. Given the Mycroft was lying half across him, it must be pretty obvious to him too; as the thought crossed Greg’s mind, Mycroft shifted so his hand could reach Greg’s cock. He hummed in satisfaction when the erection pressed into his hand; Greg couldn’t believe how hard he was, all things considered.

“So many choices,” Mycroft murmured, breaking their kiss to mouth along the side of Greg’s face to his ear. “I’ve already tasted you here, but that doesn’t stop me doing it again if that’s what you want.”

“At this rate, just keep talking to me and I’ll be done.” Greg breathed, Mycroft’s hand moving too slowly and too lightly to really threaten to make him come. He knew there was some payback in store, but had not expected it to be quite so soon.

“Surely that’s not the best thing you could think of, Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice was like liquid sex pouring in his ear and searing his brain, Greg thought desperately. “I can’t think of anything.” He said honestly, his brain running on a loop of ‘oh my god, Mycroft, oh, oh, Mycroft’ and leaving no room for creativity.

“How about I decide, then?” Mycroft asked, and Greg never thought he’d had a more brilliant thought.

“Yes.” Greg managed, the feel of Mycroft’s thumb brushing over his slit erasing most of his speech centre. He felt teeth sink gently into his earlobe, a wet tongue following close by, before warm breath carried Mycroft’s words to him.

“I want you to fuck me, Gregory.” Greg’s hips bucked at that, the fabric of Mycroft’s kilt sliding along it with nowhere near enough friction. Mycroft was still talking, drawing Greg in to the hypnotic sound of his voice. “I want you to let me undress you. I want you to lie back on your bed and watch me as I undress, touching your cock to keep it hard for me. I’m going to prepare myself, with your help, and then you’re going to push that hard cock into my arse as I offer it up to you.”

It was a very near thing that Greg did not come right there and then; the mental imagery of such a series of events was wank material for a decade, at least. He pushed Mycroft’s hand away a bit roughly, sitting up and gasping, “If that’s the plan, you better stop touching me.” He flashed a quick grin at Mycroft to reassure him before pulling him into a searing hot kiss. “Fuck.” He closed his eyes and drew in two deep breaths through his nose, exhaling hard. “Alright, you sexy beast, let’s do this.”

They pulled each other up off the floor and stumbled into the bedroom. For all the possibilities there were for taking one’s time in the agreed upon scenario, both Mycroft and Greg were so aroused by now that it was more ‘fumbling teenagers’ than ‘experienced men’. Mycroft shucked Greg’s jacket, then started on his buttons; both garments ended up in a rough pile on the floor. Greg sat on the edge of the bed to pull his shoes and socks off then reached for the buckle of his kilt, dropping it to the floor. Following the idea Mycroft had sketched out, he slid backwards on the bed, watching as Mycroft removed his shirt and jacket. His own nudity was not something he was self-conscious about; he was about to fuck Mycroft, for God’s sake. There was no chance of his erection flagging, but he palmed it anyway, loosely caressing up and down, as much for a show for Mycroft as anything.

The other man was watching him intently, and Greg smiled broadly when a slim chest and red chest hair was revealed. Mycroft reached for the buckles of his own kilt, and Greg made a ‘maybe not?’ face. Mycroft raised one eyebrow but nodded in assent, removing his hose and brogues instead. Greg had reached for the lube while Mycroft fastidiously lined up his shoes and folded the socks; when he crawled on to the bed and lay over Greg, Greg lost no time pulling Mycroft’s hips down to meet his own, fucking hard against the tartan and Mycroft’s cock, hard yet again underneath. They rutted for a bit before Greg regretfully stopped, then flipped Mycroft over. The kilt hiked up over his hips, exposing him to the air.

“How much preparation are we talking here?” Greg asked. Normally he’d take his time but if Mycroft was as eager as he seemed, it might not take as long as he thought.

“I had a plug in me as big as you only last night.” Mycroft said breathlessly.

Greg dropped the lube. “I beg your pardon?” He said in shock.

Mycroft shrugged. “I like to play, Gregory. I usually play alone, so I have quite a collection of toys.”

Greg groaned, though he was smiling. “We will definitely have to play at your place next time.” His heart was racing now, as he realised how close the moment was. Finding the lube and slicking up Mycroft’s fingers was the work of a moment, and he sat between Mycroft’s raised knees, watching two fingers disappear immediately into Mycroft’s waiting arse. The tartan spread out underneath Mycroft like a presentation cloth, green and blue.

“Ohhhhhh…” Mycroft moaned, scissoring his fingers inside himself. From this angle, Greg could see his face too; he was panting hard, mouth open as he watched Greg’s reaction to his show. Lifting one knee, Greg widened Mycroft’s legs; the knowledge that he was enjoying the view made Mycroft’s cock bob, and Greg swallowed hard. As Mycroft added a third finger, Greg leaned forward to lick at Mycroft’s balls; it was awkward, with Mycroft’s wrist in the way, but from the increased moaning and the hand holding his head in place, Greg figured it was good. He sucked one testicle into his mouth, humming as Mycroft had done to his cock, satisfied with the startled grunt in reaction.

“I’m ready.” Mycroft said suddenly, tugging on Greg’s hair. As Greg raised his head to meet Mycroft’s eyes, he said “Are you sure?”

“Check for yourself if you don’t believe me.” Mycroft fired back, lifting his heels completely off the bed, exposing himself even further. Greg took the challenging tone and met Mycroft’s eyes as he squeezed lube onto his fingers. Leaning over, bracing with one hand, he found Mycroft’s entrance with two fingers. He could feel the muscle was relaxed; his fingers needed only the gentlest pressure to be accepted into the tight warmth.

“More,” Mycroft begged shamelessly, “please, Gregory, please…”

“Fuck…” Greg muttered, reaching deeper, searching for something, where was it?

“Ahhh!” Mycroft jerked as Greg found his prostate, fists clenching against the sheets. Greg left it at one stroke, instead adding a third finger, working it inside without problem. Bloody hell, he really _was_ ready with only a moment’s preparation. Perhaps that was why he didn’t object to the potential fucking over the back of the couch, Greg thought. But that meant...

“You were going to let me fuck you over that couch.” Greg murmured, slowly fucking his fingers into Mycroft and out again, watching the expressions dance over his face as the sensations assailed him.  “Without condoms. Or lube.”

“Lotion in my sporran.” Mycroft gasped.

“What, for just that occasion?” Greg asked in disbelief.

“Dry hands.” Mycroft replied with a breathless grin.

“But still no condoms.” Greg returned to his earlier point.

“Both clean.” Mycroft managed. Greg considered this. He knew he was clean – had been tested several times since his divorce, with no sexual partners since. More importantly, Mycroft wouldn’t risk his health on an unknown variable.

“Sure?” Greg asked, his voice trembling, hand stilling, fingers still inside Mycroft.

“I trust you, Gregory. I know for certain I am clean, and I know for certain you would not risk my health.” Greg thought there might be a little bit more to Mycroft’s certainty about Greg’s clean bill of health, but now was not the time to discuss limitations on privacy.

“Okay.” Greg murmured. He leaned in and kissed Mycroft hard, pulling his fingers out as he did so. Looking Mycroft in the eye, he said quietly, “I want to see your face while I fuck you.”

Mycroft nodded, so Greg found the lube, sitting up and slicking his cock; even these few strokes took him noticeably closer to the edge. He tossed the lube then settled himself over Mycroft, chest to chest. His right hand guided his cock into place; he imagined he could feel the quivering ring of muscle quivering as he pressed against it. Looking into those peerless blue eyes, Greg pressed his hips slowly forward. He could feel Mycroft’s body loosening around him, drawing him in; the pressure and heat were incredible. Fighting to control his body, Greg buried his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, biting on the muscle as he bottomed out. Heels dug into his back and a breathless voice said, “Fuck me.” Taking it slow for a few more strokes was the hardest thing Greg had ever done, but his desire not to hurt Mycroft overrode even the desire to fuck him senseless.

When Greg could feel Mycroft’s impatience, and his own control was near breaking point, he said, “Oh, God…” and pulled almost all the way out before driving into Mycroft again. And again. Greg lost all control, snapping his body forward, pressing his weight into Mycroft as he grabbed at both hips, thrusting hard, the friction unbelievable. He could feel his balls slapping against Mycroft’s arse, and the pressure of Mycroft’s cock pressing against his stomach; someone was calling his name, and he was crying out Mycroft’s. When the world shrank in than exploded again, white hot and euphoric, the pulse of muscle around his cock made him dimly aware that Mycroft had come too. Collapsing off to the side so he didn’t squash Mycroft was the extent of his consideration right now; Greg wondered if he would die from the effects of this afternoon. More foreplay and sex than he’d had in a very long time. Good sex too, _great_ sex. With Mycroft Holmes. Well if he did die, he would die a happy man. The thought made him chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Mycroft asked sleepily.

“Nothing’s funny.” Greg murmured. He did not feel sleepy, but relaxed.

“You laughed.” Mycroft pointed out. He turned his head to look at Greg, a soft expression on his face. This time Greg did not pull his hand back, instead cupping Mycroft’s cheek, stroking gently with his thumb.

“I did. Thinking about you makes me happy.” Greg said simply. He watched Mycroft’s face bloom into a happy smile.

“We’ve ruined my kilt.” Mycroft said, pointing down. He hadn’t produced a lot of come this time, but it had definitely landed on (and been smeared into) the tartan fabric.

“Have to get another one.” Greg grinned at him.

“Well I can hardly wear this to Balmoral now, can I?” Mycroft pointed out.

“Probably not.” Greg agreed. He stretched. “We’re both pretty sticky. We should shower.”

“Together?” Mycroft asked suggestively.

“Not likely.” Greg snorted. “I’ll die if I have another orgasm today, and there’s no way we’ll both fit in my shower.”

“Lightweight.” Mycroft teased. He looked at Greg consideringly. “We would easily fit in the shower at my home.”

“Excellent. Next time at your place.” Greg said. Leaning over, he kissed Mycroft, an affectionate gesture. “First, though we should shower, and then eat. It’s not all about the sex you know.” Greg wanted to be sure Mycroft knew where things stood, at least according to him; hopefully, Mycroft would see things the same way.

“No, it’s not.” Mycroft agreed. “It’s also about kilts.”


	2. X Marks the Scotch (Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's perspective of the St. Andrew's Day celebrations - and after.

John grinned to himself. If Greg’s look could have killed, he’d never be standing here, adjusting his tie, smoothing his hands over the oddly familiar fabric of his RMAC kilt. It was still pristine as it should be, though barely worn. It was the feeling of tartan that was familiar; his well-worn Watson kilt was still at home with Da, where he’d carefully packed it before shipping out. There hadn’t been a reason to wear it until he’d overheard Greg’s boss talking about the St. Andrew’s Day celebrations and how they didn’t have anyone Scottish enough to go. John owed Greg one after Greg set him up at the pub with that awful blonde from the tube; Greg had been after her friend, John just there to keep Lana happy. So he’d felt no guilt about mentioning Greg’s Scottish heritage.

 When Greg had suggested roping Sherlock in, an idea that had not occurred to John, he couldn’t budge it. Those long, long legs, encased in hose to the knee, before bare skin disappeared temptingly under the heavy tartan of a kilt…John had not considered _not_ manipulating Sherlock into agreeing to attend. It had been easier than he’d thought.

“Sherlock,” John said, and the fact that those blue eyes locked on his told John there was something different in his voice, “Greg wants you see Molly this weekend. She’ll have some cold cases for you on Saturday afternoon.”

Sherlock looked at John, tilting his head as he did when he was analysing data and something wasn’t quite right. “Why Saturday?” he asked. “They either have the cases or they don’t, and he only offers cold cases when you ask. Or Mycroft does.” John shrugged, deliberately licking his lips and tucking his hands under him – defensive actions he knew Sherlock would observe.

“Greg wants me out of the way on Saturday.” Sherlock said triumphantly. “Where are we actually going, John? Where does Graham not want me to be?”

John sighed, though he was grinning internally. “He wanted you to stay away from the St. Andrew’s Day celebrations in Regent’s Park.” Unable to keep the smirk from his face, John stood, picking up his cup to refresh the tea.

Sherlock watched him into the kitchen, he could feel it; when John turned around to collect mugs off the table, Sherlock was standing behind him, close enough that John couldn’t help running into him. The proximity was disconcerting; John felt the air between them heat immediately, body heat pressing in from both sides. They weren’t touching, but John had to crick his neck up to see Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” he asked, trying to keep the sound of his thumping heart out of his voice.

“This has nothing to do with Gavin.” Sherlock said, in the low smug voice that never failed to thrill John. “It’s a double bluff, John Watson. You want me at Regent’s Park on Saturday.” John closed his eyes in defeat. Sherlock’s voice continued, the smooth depth surrounding him. “Why, John?”

“I bet Greg I could get you there. In a kilt.” John added. No point trying to hide it now. He’d tried his hand and now he’d have to fall back on his backup – bribery. Crossing his arms, John looked up at Sherlock, who was still standing disturbingly close. It was difficult to concentrate, but John focused on the end game – Sherlock in a kilt.

“Right.” John said. “What would it take to get you there this Saturday?”

Sherlock stepped back, leaning on the table behind him. Their feet were still touching, but at least John was no longer surrounded by the heady smell of Sherlock’s hair products, aftershave and incredible pheromones. “Parameters?” Sherlock asked.

John was ready for this. They were both well versed in negotiations. “Two hours, full kilt and accessories, no snark, no photos of Greg in his kilt.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “One hour, full kilt and accessories, moderate snark, photos for my collection.”

John countered almost immediately. “One hour, full kilt and accessories because we both know you love to show off, no snark because it’s annoying, no photos of Greg unless he okays it.” Before Sherlock could do more than open his mouth to reply, John added crossing his arms, “In return, I won’t throw out the frankly revolting experiments in the vegetable crisper, I’ll make the tea…” he paused, watching Sherlock roll his eyes, before John brought out his big gun. “And, you can make fun of Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s previously bored expression did not change much, but John still read the flicker of interest, the momentary gleam of interest in those eyes before he pulled the shutters down again.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock pretended to think, and John suppressed another grin. He knew Sherlock was hooked, it was just the details now. Sherlock glanced at John, at the smirk which had appeared despite John’s attempts, and shrugged nonchalantly. “Fine.” He turned and slammed his bedroom door, leaving John grinning openly in the kitchen. It hadn’t worked out quite the way he’d thought, and he would have to put up with whatever it was in the vegetable crisper, but Sherlock was coming with him. Out. In a kilt.

“A fucking kilt.” John breathed to himself. Christ.

+++

Pulling himself together, John picked up his phone. Its chime had brought him back to the present, and he grinned at Greg’s message.

 

_Is the old myth true?_

 

Given that Greg was probably standing in front of his own mirror, dressing in his kilt, John had a good idea what he meant, but still...he replied with a single question mark, chuckling when the response was almost instantaneous.

 

_Commando under the kilt._

 

John smirked as he replied,

 

_Not in a rented kilt._

 

He had no idea if Greg had bought or hired his kilt, but he was quite happy not to know the exact details of Greg’s underpants, either way. Sherlock had also been quiet about his plans; when John had asked him the previous day whether he was ready, all he’d gotten for his trouble was a withering glance. It was entirely possible that Sherlock owned a kilt, even a family tartan; just because John had never seen it didn’t mean anything. Sherlock hadn’t seen him in his kilt either. John restrained himself from thinking about whether Sherlock would be dressed to strict tradition in his own kilt. The thought of skin disappearing under the hem of his kilt and continuing uncovered was distracting to say the least. John turned his attention to his own attire.

He was quite pleased that his uniform still fit. He was hardly match-fit and there was always a little give in the buckles of his kilt, but overall he looked good. John straightened his medals once more and brushed down the front of his kilt before finally running out of excuses and hurrying down the stairs. If Greg was sending texts he was almost ready to go. John and Sherlock lived a lot closer, and John didn’t want to leave Greg hanging on his own.

“You ready, Sherl–” John cut himself off at the sight of Sherlock standing at the mantle, ready to go. He turned at the sound of John’s voice, kilt swishing softly as he did. Of course he’d gone for the most formal option he could, John thought a little dazedly. Prince Charlie jacket with bow tie, deep green tartan, immaculate sporran, hose and brogues. No, that spare list gave no idea of the scope of his attractiveness. The jacket hugged his slim torso, emphasising the high waist. The deep green of the tartan was in such sharp relief not only to the pristine white shirt but the pale knees peeking out. His skin was almost the same colour as the shirt; John pushed firmly away the wondering thought about whether all the skin concealed by the kilt was the same colour. His legs were as endless and shapely as John imagined. He had seen Sherlock’s legs before, between the sheet outings and minor medical attention, but the hose seemed made to emphasise their length, calling him to wind his fingers around one slim ankle and follow the ribbed pattern north, not stopping when the texture changed from hose to skin to tartan brushing his knuckles…John swallowed. One hour didn’t seem that long until he realised he’d be walking around with this sex-on-Scottish-exposed-legs. Christ indeed.

“Wow. You look great.” John managed. “I didn’t know you owned a kilt.” Of course Sherlock noticed his strained reaction, John thought. He forced a smile, but it might have come out more like a grimace.

Sherlock looked at him with slight puzzlement and impatience. “Of course you didn’t. I rarely have need to wear a kilt.” So did that mean it was _his_ kilt (which he rarely wore), or he’d hired one (because why have an item he didn’t need often?). John’s musings went unanswered, however, as Sherlock swept past him.

“Come on, John.” As they stepped out of their front door, Sherlock started the timer on his phone. “One hour and we return.”

John rolled his eyes at the theatrics and started towards the Park. There were already people around, clearly headed for the celebrations. Kilts and crosses of St. Andrew were everywhere, and John felt his attention ramp up. He was very aware of people in a crowd; a holdover from his time overseas. He watched the way people interacted, where their eyes lingered, the way they spoke to people in authority. He could feel Sherlock walking beside him, and his attention must have wandered because suddenly an arm thrust out in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Before he could turn to ask Sherlock what the hell he was doing, John realised he had just about walked in front of a platoon of bagpipers.

“Thanks,” he muttered to Sherlock as the musicians passed. He flicked his eyes up and could see the smirk as Sherlock revelled in his moment of absentmindedness.

“Not paying attention, John?” Sherlock said as the last of the pipers walked past. “That’s unlike you. Why are you so distracted?” His question was genuine but there was no way John was giving him a straight answer.

“Where do you think we’ll find Mycroft?” John asked to change the subject clearly brewing in Sherlock’s head. He watched the taller man look over the heads of the crowd, zeroing in on something.

“Mycroft will be at the formal events. Greg is standing over there.” Sherlock delivered this news while striding off, leaving John no choice but to follow. By the time he’d caught up, Greg and Sherlock had spoken.

“Hi Greg.” John greeted him. “You look great.”

They talked for a few moments before Greg rolled his eyes, escorting Sherlock to see Mycroft. No doubt he’d be in protective mode, timing Sherlock’s snarkfest with Mycroft down to the second. They left John outside the Royal stand, which was fine with him. He had no desire to see Mycroft, kilted or otherwise.

John watched them go, shaking his head. He could picture Greg pulling Sherlock aside, giving him a firm warning about exactly how much he would be allowed to torture Mycroft. John grinned. This could be a turning point for Greg, he might actually do something about his crush on Mycroft. The smile faded as John thought about his own slight (okay, more than slight) infatuation with Sherlock. Fat chance of that ever working out. John buoyed his spirits somewhat by debating the likelihood that a) Sherlock owned his kilt, and b) was wearing no pants underneath. He was still trying to decide if he’d stoop as low as googling the Holmes tartan to determine if it was the same pattern Sherlock was wearing when the aforementioned detective strode out of the entrance to the Royal stand. Greg was talking to the guard, and from the scowl on Sherlock’s face the words were actually directed at him – making sure he didn’t sneak back in, most likely.

“Found Mycroft, then?” John asked, when Sherlock made his way back over to him.

“Of course. He was exactly where I said he would be.” Sherlock snapped. John just grinned. He was taking his frustration with Greg out on John, which was predictable and actually fine.

“We’ve got another half an hour or so–“

“Thirty four minutes, John.”

“Yes, so what do you want to do?” John motioned towards the parade ground. “Do you want to watch the parade?” The predictable snort of derision came right on cue.

“Alright, we’ll go this way then.” He took a few steps before realising Sherlock had not followed him. Staring at him, John saw the irritation on Sherlock’s face. Alright, he thought, we can do this the hard way. Stepping in closer, John only stopped when the toes of his brogues touched against Sherlock’s. “We are going this way, Sherlock. If you don’t come with me, I will go straight home and clean the fridge, throw out the kettle and start drinking tea from a can!” John didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was pure Captain Watson. He was close enough to watch Sherlock’s eyes widen as he processed the words, before the stroppy detective stomped off in the direction John had begun moving earlier.

For his part, John hadn’t moved. He had been close enough for Sherlock’s scent to drift to him, even in the busy crowd; ignoring that had been simple enough. It was Sherlock’s reaction that had made John freeze. His eyes had widened, but John had clearly seen Sherlock’s pupil’s dilate, too. His breathing had hitched, and John was damned if he was wrong to remember Sherlock’s glance flickering to John’s mouth before he flounced off, sporran bobbing. _Bloody hell_ , John thought to himself. Involuntary responses to sexual stimulus.

Sherlock had been turned on.

By Captain Watson.

By John.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock’s voice was impatient, even though he had no idea where they were going or what he was meant to be doing. John shook himself, executed an about turn, and walked over to join Sherlock.

“This way,” John managed. He’d checked out what was on offer before they’d left that morning – basic reconnaissance, really. When he’d seen this stall listed, John knew it would be the place, possibly the only place that would occupy Sherlock for the remainder of their time this afternoon. While it wouldn’t matter really if they went back to Baker Street early, John didn’t want to go back to the usual evening, as nice as it was. Especially now that he had the inkling of an idea that maybe, just maybe…

“Here?” Sherlock asked, when John’s hand on the small of his back guided him towards the Scotch-based liqueur stall. Sherlock looked a little suspicious, eyes raking over the signs and equipment. John ignored the warmth in the palm of his hand from where it had touched Sherlock’s jacket.

“Liqueurs?” he asked John.

“They keep bees to produce the honey.” John told him, feeling a smile bloom on his own face as Sherlock’s face lit up. John indicated the woman he recognised from their website. “I think this is Ailsa. She owns the distillery. Ailsa, this is Sherlock. He loves bees.”

After that, all John had to do was stand back and watch as Sherlock and Ailsa hit it off immediately, entering into a deep discussion about beekeeping, honey production and the techniques the distillery used to add the honey to their Scotch. John leaned against the post at the corner of Ailsa‘s stall; he watched Sherlock, animated as at any crime scene. Hands gesturing, long fingers flying through the air as they indicated the shape of something, hair dancing as he nodded, listening avidly to Ailsa as she talked about their setup. John watched Sherlock try samples of the honey, the wooden stick dipping into the viscous liquid, twirling in the air before disappearing into Sherlock’s parted lips. His tongue darted out often, searching for traces of sweetness on his skin; John found he wanted to press his own lips there, licking the honey from Sherlock’s mouth…

“John! Come and taste this.” Sherlock demanded, dragging John from his reverie. John pushed himself upright, taking the proffered shot of Scotch, hoping the slight tent in his kilt would be hidden by his sporran. The lack of underwear was a bonus too, he suddenly remembered, not feeling the uncomfortable restriction his pants usually placed on a burgeoning erection.

“Savour it, John.” Sherlock instructed. John shared an amused look with Ailsa as she watched the two of them try the Scotch. She explained how they made this blend, talking them through the differences between this and three others, all of which Sherlock insisted John try, too. By that point John’s head was reeling, even with the water they’d drunk in between.

“No more for me,” he said as Sherlock tried to give him yet another sample. “Buy some if you like it so much.”

“I’ll take a bottle of each variety.” Sherlock promptly told Ailsa, who looked astonished. “Do you sell the honey, too?”

“He’s serious.” John assured her. “Actually,” John amended, “Sherlock, chose one bottle of Scotch and a jar of honey for us to take with us, we’ll have the rest delivered.” He arranged to have a bottle of each other liqueur and variety of honey delivered to Baker Street, Ailsa thanking him profusely as she packed Sherlock’s bottle of Scotch into a brown paper bag, handing him the jar of honey in a carry bag. John was amused to see Sherlock thank her solemnly for his purchase before turning to him. His face was flushed, eyes bright, and even in his own slightly squiffy state, John realised the Scotch must have affected Sherlock, too.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, the quiet words almost lost in the noise of the still increasing crowd.

“You’re welcome.” John replied automatically, surprised at the display of gratitude. Sherlock had dug out his mobile phone, and John’s heart sank as he glanced at his own watch. It was a long time past their deadline; Sherlock had been engrossed in the honey Scotch, and John was too busy watching Sherlock to keep track of the time. Without a comment, Sherlock looked at the screen then returned his phone to his pocket.

“Dinner?” he asked John.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon!” John replied. His stomach heard only the offer, though, and protested that dinner would be great, actually.

“Well, I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch.” Sherlock replied with infuriating logic. “You don’t want me to pass out after drinking so much on an empty stomach, do you?”

John gave him an exasperated look, which turned into a grin when Sherlock graced him with the special smile that meant he was actually happy. It was a rarity, and John savoured it.

They worked their way out of the crowd before stopping to survey the food vans.

“Haggis?” John offered, and found himself giggling when Sherlock gave him a mildly revolted look. “Well, you make a choice, then.” John said.

Sherlock stalked over (really, thought John, there was no other word when he looked all predatory like that) to examine the offerings of each stall. John didn’t try to fight the crowd, standing back and catching glimpses of Sherlock’s curls as he darted in and out. The best part was when Sherlock made his way around the crowd back towards John. He was far enough away that John could watch his legs, the movement of his kilt, the jostle of his sporran, without it being too obvious.

“Well?” John asked when Sherlock was within speaking distance. His eyes were speculative when they fell on John, but John ignored it. Sherlock was often deducing him, he was used to it.

“Nothing.” Sherlock made it sound as though the vans were devoid of food entirely, he was so definitive. “We should return to Baker Street and order from Angelo’s. Or Chinese.”

John blinked at him. “Okay.” He said. This wasn’t an argument worth having, and Sherlock had spent the afternoon with John, as agreed. He could see confusion on Sherlock’s face as he turned to walk with John the short distance back home. John called Angelo as they walked, their usual order on the way as they walked up to 221b.

As soon as they’d made it in the door, Sherlock put the bottle of Scotch and the jar of honey on the desk and whirled to look at John. “Something’s different today.” He announced. He was looking intently at John, but there was still a softness to his voice that John recognised must be from the Scotch.

“You’re a bit drunk, for one.” John pointed out. “So am I.” He was far less drunk that Sherlock, given his regular pints at the pub with Greg; Sherlock rarely drank anything at all, let alone alcohol.

Sherlock blinked. “You’re in a kilt.” He said, then looked down, mildly surprised to see his own attire. “So am I.”

“Come on, Sherlock, you’re not that drunk.”

“No,” he admitted.

“You need to eat, though.” John told him. He didn’t flat out refuse, which John marked as a win

On cue, there was a knock at the door. John collected it from George, tipping well as they always did – technically, Angelo didn’t offer a delivery service – and brought it upstairs. By the time he’d done so, Sherlock was sprawled in his chair as usual, one leg cocked over the arm, the other extending indolently out in front of him. John averted his eyes from the pale thigh exposed by Sherlock’s attitude; his kilt had ridden up quite a bit, and for anyone else it would have been embarrassing. Sherlock did not seem to have noticed. A little part of John’s brain noted that the skin was as pale as he’d thought earlier, and it was likely that the same colour would be found on all the skin under that deep green tartan.

John sighed as he served their meals onto plates and carried them in. He used the edge of the plate to knock against Sherlock’s knee, ignoring the shadow cast by the kilt over the very edge of Sherlock’s skin, before it disappeared from view.

“Eat.” John said, seating himself on his own chair and digging in. They ate in silence for a while, and John felt the effects of the food settling his stomach. When he’d finished, John balanced his plate on the arm of his chair and slid forward, tipping his head back and sighing. He was sleepy, which was surely becau–

“WHA-!” John shouted, leaping up as something touched his knee. He looked down, brushing at his lap until he looked over to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, one brogue tugged off, his stockinged foot stretching across the gap.

“Too tempting, John.” Sherlock managed before he descended into giggles. John stared at him.

“What the hell was that about?” John asked. His heart was thumping, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Sherlock was still laughing too hard to speak, so John stood up, collecting both their plates to take to the kitchen. When he returned, John stood by his chair, looking at Sherlock. The detective was calmer now, and he returned John’s gaze levelly. There was something else there, John thought, something more aware than usual.

“Sherlock?” John murmured.

“John.” Sherlock replied, a low rumble in his chest. His hand moved slowly up towards his throat. Without taking his eyes off John, Sherlock tugged at the end of his bowtie, loosening the fabric until it untied itself then fluttered to the floor. John felt his brow furrow before his eyes widened as one long finger slipped in to flick the top button of Sherlock’s shirt open.

“Would you be so good as to bring me the new Scotch?” Sherlock asked in the same low rumble, his eyes still locked on John. John did not speak; he collected the Scotch, slipped it out of the bag and passed it to Sherlock without a word. Their fingers overlapped on the cool glass of the bottle, and John shivered at the contact. It felt like Sherlock waited a beat longer than necessary before accepting the weight of the bottle. He opened it without looking away; the intense gaze was only broken when his eyes fluttered shut, breathing in the aroma of the liqueur. John heard a rumble of satisfaction, and he swallowed hard. This was very unlike Sherlock. What game was he playing?

“Would you like some Scotch, John?” Sherlock offered. When John declined, Sherlock deliberately licked his lips before wrapping them around the end of the bottle and drinking. “Mmmmm,” he sighed, tipping his head back; John could see his throat bob as he swallowed the Scotch. Understanding suddenly flooded John. Sherlock had finally realised what it was that had been distracting John all day. John’s cheeks burned pink as all those stolen moments came back to him. The puzzled looks as he stared at Sherlock’s legs, the amused smirk when John had almost been flattened by the pipe band. Sherlock had figured it out and now, he was flirting with John. Flirting.

Suddenly, John smiled, the tension dropping from his shoulders. Three Continents Watson certainly knew how to deal with flirting. Moving slowly, John stepped forward, wrapping his hand once again around the Scotch bottle, intending to take it from Sherlock. When John’s fingers brushed Sherlock’s however, he jerked so hard the bottle slipped from both their hands and landed upside down in Sherlock’s lap. John grabbed at it, but it was too late – half the bottle had run out, soaking Sherlock’s kilt with honey Scotch.

Sherlock swore, lifting the bottle away, spraying Scotch everywhere in the process. He clumsily placed it next to the empty fireplace, arms flailing, narrowly avoiding spilling the rest on the floor. John watched, frozen as the bottle fell in slow motion. His eyes were fixed on the puddle in Sherlock’s lap, slowly soaking into the fabric below. As he watched, Sherlock lifted his sporran, dripping golden liquid back into the puddle as he fumbled to release the ties with one hand. Without thinking about it, John pushed him to sit forward, sliding his hands down Sherlock’s back to his hips, tugging on the ends of the ties until the sporran came away from Sherlock’s hips.

“Hope there’s nothing too valuable in here.” John said awkwardly. The atmosphere had changed, thickening as they both breathed hard and focussed their attention on the region of Sherlock’s Scotch soaked groin.

“The usual,” Sherlock replied abstractly, still trying to keep the now wet fabric from his skin, “a shilling, a handkerchief, a flask of Scotch, and Lestrade’s ID.” John had no idea why Sherlock would keep those things in his sporran, but that was hardly the point right now. He took the sodden, heavy bag from Sherlock and placed it on the table, not wanting to stray too far, lest he break the thread of this new thing that had bound them tentatively together. It was the combination of curious glances, Scotch and whatever Sherlock was playing at, giving John the impression that something new was brewing between them.

“Has it soaked through?” John asked, and he found himself crouching beside Sherlock’s chair. The very idea of he and Sherlock looking at Sherlock’s groin with such intensity took his breath away, and he realised how hard he was breathing. This was way past flirting, now.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, his voice deep and quiet. John looked up at him and lost his balance, tipping forwards. One hand shot out to steady himself and landed on Sherlock’s outstretched knee. The contact was like instant fire. Both men froze, two pairs of eyes drawn to the place. John’s left palm cupped Sherlock’s right knee, his fingers stretching over to the outer side, thumb gripping as he fought gravity and the sudden dizziness in his head. He swallowed hard before slowly relaxing his grip, flexing his legs to stabilise himself. In the debate ‘to remove the hand or not remove the hand’, John found his thumb was tracing slow soft path along the pale soft skin of Sherlock’s lower thigh, just above the bend of his knee. He realised this, and the thumb stilled, his face flushing with guilt and embarrassment, but he could not bring himself to remove his hand. The edge of Sherlock’s stocking nudged one side of his hand, the hem of the kilt the other; this was the one place he could touch Sherlock without shifting fabric aside. The one place he could cling to the notion that it was an accident and nothing more.

More.

He wanted more. The very idea of sliding his hand upwards to find out for himself if the Scotch had soaked through made John’s mouth water and he imagined he could feel his pupils dilate, so strong was his sudden desire.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, and John found his eyes lifting to meet those hovering above him. Sherlock had slumped back in his seat, abandoning the attempt to keep wet wool from his lap. John wondered what he was going to say, but no words were necessary; Sherlock could be elegantly simple when he wasn’t showing off. He raised one eyebrow and lowered his gaze, shifting his other hand slightly to bracket the quite obvious bulge in his kilt. There was no sporran to hide it now, and his slumped posture thrust his hips forwards, accentuating the magnitude of the bulge, pushing it into obscenity. The Pavlovian response was instant, and John licked his lips, feeling the answering kick as his cock filled a bit, gently shifting the tartan as it moved. Mortified, he closed his eyes, dropping his head, knowing he was defeated when a low, throaty chuckle reached his ears. Oh boy. It was all out there now. Sherlock knew, and he was making it pointedly clear that he knew how much John desired him. Moreover, he was practically inviting John to do something about it. After so long watching his actions and reactions around Sherlock, it took John a few seconds to move. The thought had occurred to him that he was off balance because the power sat with Sherlock, in this moment and despite appearances, that was a reversal to their usual roles.

John Watson was no shrinking sub in the bedroom, either.

Ahhh. He allowed a small smile to drift across his face as he made a plan, the thumb starting its caress again. Captain Watson needed to make an appearance here. If nothing else it would be interesting to see how Sherlock reacted to him. Shifting up to his knees, John turned, swinging one knee over Sherlock’s foot so he was straddling one extended leg, his own kilt draping over Sherlock’s shin. He tugged at the quick release on his sporran ties – experience and the Army had taught him how to cut corners getting dressed – and dropped his own sporran to one side.

“Money, keys, my _own_ ID.” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Quite different to the contents of your sporran, Sherlock.”

“True.” Sherlock replied, then drew a sharp breath as John slid his hand downwards, pushing the stocking down a centimetre or so. The flash of disappointment was what John expected, and he smirked, letting Sherlock know he’d seen the expression. Sherlock had expected him to go upwards, but John was nothing if not a patient man. As he tensed the muscles in his arm to continue his reveal of Sherlock’s lower leg, the heavy silence was shattered.

“Wait,” Sherlock said, putting his own hand over John’s. A burst of disappointment was quashed when Sherlock’s fingers removed his sgian-dubh and fumbled to unclip the garter holding his flashes in place. He tossed the knife aside, deliberately replacing his hand on the arm of his chair, meeting John’s eyes with an oddly acquiescent look. John regarded him for a moment before placing his other hand on Sherlock’s left thigh, high enough to be interesting without actually touching anything. The fabric of the kilt slid a little beneath the natural weight of his hand, and he made sure to allow it to shift as he moved. The very tips of John’s fingers occasionally brushed the very tips of Sherlock’s, still sitting where he had laid his hand earlier. It drew Sherlock’s attention away from his other hand, making him work to concentrate on John’s hand pressing down his shin, taking the edge of his stocking with it. Sherlock’s leg was smooth against John’s hand; the hairs were as sparse and light as John expected. He could feel the bone beneath his palm and his fingers curled around to dig slightly into Sherlock’s calf muscle, surprisingly substantial for a man so slim.

When the stocking was bunched around Sherlock’s ankle, John, who had been watching the progress of his own hand with fascination, paused. This was the foot still shod with one brogue. Fortunately he was a bit of an expert when it came to tying – and untying – brogues. His father’s drunkenness often resulted in his passing out and John having to remove his shoes as he sat in much the same position as Sherlock did now, slumped in an armchair. With a quick tug on the right lace, the carefully arranged laces loosened, sagging as the tension holding them in place disappeared. John cupped his hand around the heel, releasing it before making sure the laces didn’t catch as he pulled the shoe away and discarded it.

“You’ve done that before.” Sherlock murmured questioningly.

“Drunk dad.” John replied shortly in a voice that said, ‘I’m only answering so you won’t get lost in your head wondering about it but I do not want to discuss it now.’ He brought his hand back, running it across the top of Sherlock’s foot, thumb cupping the arch, pressing firmly as it travelled back to where the stocking still waited. A moment later, John tossed it over his shoulder, Sherlock’s tartan flashes fluttering to the ground; John barely noticed. He was staring at Sherlock’s bare leg, the length of bare skin now available to him to touch, and more.

More.

John’s right hand was now tensing, squeezing Sherlock’s quad muscle, massaging the heavy mass below his fingers. The tartan still slid as he moved, fingers still brushed, and he could feel his cock continue to bulge, as this slow exploration of Sherlock’s body guided his own towards full arousal. John’s tartan was a noticeable weight against the increasingly erect tissue of his cock; he could feel the slipping of his wet head and knew the little pre-come was allowing his kilt to shift more freely, negating some of the scratch of the fabric in favour of lubrication. Hesitantly, John returned his hand to the top of Sherlock’s foot, his thumb again pressing into the arch, feeling the tendons that ran to his long toes. He squeezed, the flexible bones shifting slightly under the pressure. Sherlock’s breathing hitched there; John had been so wrapped up in his own catalogue of sensations he had almost forgotten that his flatmate, friend, whatever this was, sat at the other end of this body.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said insincerely, his quiet voice breaking the silence that had almost solidified between them. “I was going to check if that Scotch had soaked through your kilt.” His eyes met Sherlock, a devious smile on his face. “Better get to that. I’d hate for you to have to sit there with everything all…wet.” At the last word, he squeezed Sherlock’s quad and slid the hand on his foot a little higher.

“Sweet.” Quad squeeze. Slide to shin.

“Sticky.” Quad squeeze. Slide to top of shin.

“Fragrant.” Quad squeeze. Slide to knee, where he had started. John paused, listening to the rasp of Sherlock’s breathing. He was looking far less sure of himself now, John was pleased to see. Eyes wide, fingers tensing on the leather of his arm rest and the top of his own thigh, and for some reason his hair was more tousled than usual. It was so sexy John was tempted to rut against his leg, feeling the first real urges for friction against his now fully erect cock. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock had noticed – there had been other things happening after all – so John dropped his hips, allowing the heaviness between his legs to brush against Sherlock’s shin. His kilt was folded under him, but John was sure that if not, he would have left a sticky patch on Sherlock’s remaining stocking. Sherlock started at the contact, his mouth dropping open at the salacious look on John’s face.

“Oops,” John murmured. Before Sherlock could respond, John swung his right leg over Sherlock’s leg, placing himself between Sherlock’s legs. He sat back on his heels, allowing his right hand to slip back from quad to knee, brushing that skin for the first time. For a long, breathy moment he sat there between Sherlock’s legs, hands on his knees, listening to both of their rough breathing.

“Fragrant.” John said musingly, repeating the last word he’d said. Sherlock gave a pleasing little ‘oh’, then clamped his lips shut. John smirked at him, dipping the tips of all eight fingers under Sherlock’s kilt. “I wonder,” John continued aloud, “exactly what scents there are under here.” He dropped his eyes pointedly to the bulge that now sat at his eye level. It gave a definite jerk at his words. “I mean it’s probably pretty warm,” John continued in the same thoughtful, slightly impersonal tone, “the Scotch will be body temperature by now. The individual scent of a Scotch is released with warmth, right?” He raised his eyebrows with the question, and Sherlock nodded fervently. “Plus there’s the honey. Honey has distinctive aromas depending on the type of flowers the nectar is gathered from, I think.” John watched Sherlock nod again, his eyes wide and fixed on John. In any other context, the mere mention of bees and honey would have him off explaining every detail to John, but now he seemed determined to keep his mouth closed. John frowned a little. If there were noises to be had, he wanted to hear them.

“It must be a mix, then,” John continued, fingers still sitting just under the edge of the kilt. The fabric was heavy on the back of his fingers, a rough contrast to the smooth skin below. “A combination of the Scotch,” he ducked his head towards Sherlock’s groin, inhaling deeply, “the honey,” his head moved closer, breathing in again, eyes closed, “and you.” John breathed deeply again, and he was rewarded with a high whine from above him. He could smell the Scotch, heady with a sweet undertone, but there was also a subtle, woodsy aftershave, though none of the sexual musk he anticipated below the kilt. Sherlock didn’t have to know that, though. A deeply satisfied moan rumbled through John, and he opened his eyes, tilting his head so he could lock eyes with Sherlock. That amazing mouth was hanging open again, having given in against the urge to vocalise.

“I want to hear you,” John told him in a quiet, intense voice. He let that hang in the air for a moment before giving a positively feral grin and adding, “You’ll have to be a bit louder, I’ll be under a kilt.”

With that, he ducked his head, lifting the edges of the kilt and settling them over his head, pressing his lips to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. A grin came to his face, pulling his lips away from the salty skin as Sherlock gave what could only be described as a yelp, then a groan at John’s actions. Hands on inner knees, John pushed outwards, encouraging Sherlock to sink lower, spreading his knees wider to make space for the salt and pepper head now nuzzling at his inner thigh.

It _was_ warm under there, John thought absently as he licked and kissed his way along Sherlock’s thigh. A bit stuffy, really, but the smell was beyond anything he could have imagined. It was heavy, thick like cream, swirling around his head, so rich he could barely discern the individual components. He paused as his brain worked in overdrive, pulling out the peaty Scotch, sweetness of the honey; the deep earthy scent of male sweat and the distinctly arousing smell John associated with sex, that musky aroma of an aroused adult. His brain was happy enough with the basics so he concentrated once again on what he was doing. Sherlock seemed to be taking the ‘make noise’ directive quite seriously, panting hard as John dragged his nose against smooth skin, warm and a little slick with sweat and maybe pre-come. The weight of two layers of tartan was a little oppressive, but it was not much different to a partner who liked to press against his head while he explored. John found he could concentrate on the other sensations here in the dark, where his vision was useless and his mouth and nose far more important. As he moved higher, a deep voice groaned. Teeth are good, then, John noted to himself, soothing the spot with his tongue. A few more centimetres towards his goal, and John felt something warm and silky-hard knock against his ear, leaving a wet patch. Okay, so he was that high already, he thought to himself as Sherlock cried out at the contact. Maybe sight wasn’t overrated after all. He turned his head, allowing the length of Sherlock’s straining cock to slide against his cheek, his jaw; when it glance off his mouth, John couldn’t resist a swipe of his tongue. The unexpected wetness, and subsequent breath of cool air made Sherlock practically levitate, smacking John in the jaw with his thigh in the process. John grinned to himself. He could _smell_ the Scotch and honey, but the scent was so overwhelming that it made it difficult to know if he could also taste it. Nosing around a little further, towards the crease between thigh and groin, Jon’s head pressed against Sherlock’s shaft, sliding gently as he kissed and licked other skin, long stripes with the flat of his tongue followed with jets of cool air, the juxtaposition against the excessive warmth making Sherlock writhe. When a particularly dramatic wriggle made John lose his balance, John pulled his head out from underneath, the cool air in his nose a pleasant break.

“Do you mind?” John asked haughtily. “I am trying to discover how extensive this Scotch spillage is, Sherlock.” Sherlock gazed at him, pupils wide, eyelids heavy with lust. John took a measure of pity on the man – he’d barely touched Sherlock’s cock, and this was the reaction already.

“Hmmm, might be an easier way,” John thought aloud, pressing the kilt back into place. He leaned forward, smoothing the fabric, pressing it against Sherlock’s cock, sliding it back and forth, knowing from experience how that sensitive head would feel as the rough fabric grazed across it. Sherlock arched back at the sensation, letting out an explosive breath as John relented, allowing the fabric to relax. John was working his tongue against the roof of his mouth, generating saliva for what he had planned next. Without warning, John dipped his head, pressing his mouth against the top of that long bulge, sucking hard on the tartan covering Sherlock’s cock, hands pressing firmly on knees in anticipation. Sure enough, Sherlock had a literal knee jerk reaction, John having to push down to prevent being bucked off. He allowed the saliva to soak into the fabric, releasing the suction only to take even more into his mouth, the fibres tickling his lips and rasping, still a little too dry and uncomfortable against the top of his mouth. He sucked even harder, the saliva mixing with the Scotch being drawn back into John’s mouth. He sat up, making a show of tasting the liquid in his mouth, making considering noises until Sherlock looked at him. The Scotch was fiery and sweet on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth, soothing the dryness from the tartan. Only then did John swallow, holding Sherlock’s eyes with a smouldering gaze.

“Definitely Scotch in that layer.” John reported seriously. “Kilts these days, they treat the wool so much there’s no lanolin. Old fabric, the Scotch would have a much harder time soaking in. But I digress.” He paused, working another round of saliva into his mouth as his nimble fingers found the fold of Sherlock’s kilt. Slowly, John lifted the top layer, tucking it between Sherlock’s thigh and the arm of the couch.

“Have to know if it made it through to here.” John murmured thickly, running his hand blatantly over Sherlock’s cock, now one layer closer. Sherlock worked to control his reaction, and the hand John had laid on his thigh felt the muscle quivering with the effort. He kept his fist loose to keep the slide of fabric against Sherlock’s shaft. Leaning forward, John paused, face directly above Sherlock’s cock. He watched it jump twice, before he took it, and another mouthful of fabric, into his mouth. He moved the moisture around, this fabric a little drier that the layer above; sucking it back out gave him only a hint of the Scotch, and it was still hard to know if that was taste or smell. Releasing Sherlock’s cock once again, John put on the same show of tasting before swallowing, watching Sherlock watching him do so.

“Hmmm.” John considered. He pretended to have come to a decision, nodding decisively. “I can’t tell if it’s smell or taste. Have to do an experiment to be sure.” And he reached smoothly around, grasped the neck of the Scotch bottle, and poured the remaining contents into Sherlock’s lap. As soon as the bottle was empty, John dropped it back onto the floor and ducked his head, sucking the now sopping fabric, filling his mouth with Scotch. He pushed up on Sherlock’s knee with one hand, the other reaching out to curl around his neck, pulling the dark head down into a filthy, Scotch laced kiss. John pushed the Scotch into Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue reaching into the warmth, all other taste eclipsed by the liqueur. He pulled off the kiss just as Sherlock was reacting, ducking his head once more to suck Scotch from Sherlock’s kilt. Sherlock, realising what John was doing, waited, meeting John with an open mouth, a whole lot of enthusiasm and a surprising level of skill. A few moments passed this time, as their mouths met and parted, Scotch being swallowed, and the taste slowly fading until it was an undertone to the taste of Sherlock himself. John forced himself to pull off once more, this time wrapping one hand around Sherlock’s cock, blanketing it in sopping tartan.

“That’s the most Scottish thing I’ve ever seen,” John murmured, then dropped his open mouth over as much of Sherlock’s cock as he could manage. There was no need to produce moisture this time; the Scotch had soaked the fabric thoroughly, allowing John to suck and swallow several times, his throat constricting around Sherlock. The shouts and groans were incredible, he thought to himself, his own ignored cock giving a painful throb. John snaked one hand down, palming himself through his own kilt, the rough friction making him groan around Sherlock’s cock. Evidently that was the last straw, because Sherlock suddenly gave three short thrusts and came, shuddering, in John’s mouth with his Scotch soaked kilt wrapped around his cock. John would have grinned if he’d been able, instead rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs as he came down, slowly releasing his cock as it softened. Sherlock was slumped back, looking completely debauched.

“Well,” John said, his own raging lust still thumping in his ears. A moment later Sherlock jerked again. John met his eyes as one tanned hand pulled back the last layer of tartan, peeling off Sherlock’s cock where the come had stuck flesh to fabric. Without breaking eye contact, John licked a wide line up Sherlock’s cock, the gentle softness beneath his tongue salty and bitter. Sherlock groaned, a loud guttural sound that pushed John noticeable closer to the edge.

“Too much?” he asked, relieved when Sherlock shook his head. John continued to clean Sherlock up with his mouth, sucking at the delicate skin, running his tongue over soft balls, hairs tickling his nose and chin. He was startled to realise, after a few moments of gentle attention, that Sherlock was stirring again; his cock was filling, slowly but surely, as John nosed around, flicking against the head of his cock, exploring the spot where cock met balls. John grinned to himself. He might actually get another go at this, given Sherlock appeared to have the shortest refractory period known to man. He kept doing what he was doing, soft and gentle, feeling the change in Sherlock’s cock as it thickened and swelled. He’d pushed one hand under his own kilt by now, giving himself just enough to be able to concentrate on Sherlock. When John tasted pre-come beading once again on Sherlock’s crown, he groaned, fist flying faster over himself.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly authoritarian given his recent experience, and it made John pause and look up at him. His eyes were clear, well, clearer, and he grasped John’s bicep in a strong grip. “Get up here.”

John scrambled up, having no idea what Sherlock had planned but knowing he wanted in. Sherlock pushed his own kilt aside, bringing John to straddle him, their cocks brushing. John’s was purple, still clenched in his fist, slick with the copious pre-come he’d produced while focusing on Sherlock. Sherlock was fast matching his deep colour, the sight of John clearly arousing him even further. John made to wrap one fist around both their cocks, shifting his hips to slide against Sherlock, grunting as the contact spiked desire though his already aflame body.

“No,” Sherlock murmured, sounding amused at John’s desperation. John looked at him, confused. He watched as Sherlock, ensuring that John could see, turned the under pleat of his kilt over, exposing the patch of sticky come that marked the section covering his cock when he had come previously. Smirking at John’s expression, Sherlock took his kilt and draped it over John, his large fist enveloping John’s cock, wrapped in the same section of kilt Sherlock had come in only moments ago.

“This is my come, John,” Sherlock murmured, watching John’s face as he realised exactly what Sherlock had done. The groan from his throat would hurt tomorrow, it was so raw and primal, and he thrust without restraint into Sherlock’s fist, abandoning himself, holding onto the shoulders in front of him, still clad in the Prince Charlie jacket. “My come, slick on your hard prick, making my kilt slide over you. This is a Holmes tartan, you know, and you’ve made me come all over it. You made me come, John, sucking me through my family’s tartan, you filthy, brilliant man.” It was this last phrase, the same word John used to describe Sherlock now being turned onto himself. That was the moment John felt his climax turn the corner to inevitable. His hips stuttered and Sherlock’s fist tightened, the tartan brushing against his balls with a whisper touch as he arched and shouted hoarsely, “Sherlock!”

When John came around, he was still astride Sherlock, who had bent his head forward and was breathing hard into the same space as John. Sherlock’s hands were around John’s back, stopping him from falling backwards; John had at some point wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. They were panting hard. John’s fingers and toes were tingling. Emotion told him it was the strength of his orgasm, his connection with Sherlock; medical training said he’d been breathing so shallowly the hypoxia was affecting his extremities. When their breathing returned to normal, John realised there was a wet, sticky mess not only under Sherlock’s kilt, but over it too – and on his waistcoat and shirt.

“You came again?” John asked, impressed.

Sherlock shrugged. “You just came in my lap, John, what would you expect?”

The unexpected answer made John giggle, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock joined him.

“Well,” Sherlock said finally, looking down at the mess. John had peeled the tartan off his cock, now returned to its flaccid state. His clothes seemed to be clean, but when he stood and surveyed Sherlock, he had to grin.

“One stocking and both shoes off, kilt’s been soaked in Scotch, saliva and come from two blokes, bowtie missing, come on your waistcoat, jacket and shirt.” John listed. He looked around. “You’re missing your knife-”

“Sgian-dubh, John!”

“-Yes, I know, your flashes and garter are gone too, and I’d say your sporran is past repair.”

Sherlock looked uncertainly at John until a huge grin told him John was far more impressed than angry.

“That’s one hell of a St. Andrew’s Day,” John said. “How on Earth are we going to top that next year?”


End file.
